


You Will Go Hungry

by grabmotte



Series: Cold Comfort [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Blackmail, Canon Divergence, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Faked Death, Graphic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Series 2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-03-19 18:10:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 102,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3619401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/pseuds/grabmotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3414464/chapters/7477337">Blessed are those who mourn.</a></p><p>Having faked his own death to escape being poisoned Cardinal Richelieu continues to work from the shadows to destroy his would-be assassin and to protect king and country using a network of covert agents. But troubling situations at Court prove rather distracting: While Rochefort is doing his best to ensure there will be no kingdom for Richelieu to return to, Treville finds himself in a precarious position after he has been dismissed as captain of the musketeers.</p><p>And how much of a secret is Richelieu's survival anyway? How much does Rochefort know and how can the cardinal hope to protect his secrets from someone who used to work with him as closely as Milady de Winter?</p><p>In order to defeat Rochefort, expose a traitor, and save Treville's life and reputation Richelieu is going to have to strike up odd alliances.<br/> </p><p>  <i>The story roughly follows series 2, with the first chapters taking place some time after episode four. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snakes in the Garden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/gifts).



Chapter 1: Snakes in the Garden

"She's watching us."

Antoine de Boileau resisted the all too human instinct to look. 

"Again?" he said, putting in his best effort to sound exasperated rather than letting the unease show that pricked his spine. 

His companion, Suzanne de Brèves, leaned her head close as she responded: "She really must want you badly."

Boileau could hear the grin in her voice. Unfortunately he did not find his present predicament to be a laughing matter. 

They were strolling through the palace gardens together; her arm upon his. To all eyes they appeared nothing more than two ordinary young courtiers enjoying a stroll among the tulips in fine weather. To all eyes except one specific pair: 

Before her fall from grace Milady had held a special position in the cardinal's web of intelligence. She had been his favourite agent and not without good reason. She had been able to move in any and all spheres of society without a personal attachment to either. While not everyone employed by the cardinal had known her by sight, many had known _of_ her. 

Boileau was one of the few privileged agents to have seen Milady and known her for what she was. And now, disgraced and discarded by the cardinal, she had managed to place herself at king's side as his mistress – it was a side that grew lonelier by the day, with the former captain of the musketeers being only the most recent to be chased from court. Yet, for a while now, in addition to prancing about the palace, the newly exalted spy had taken to throwing Boileau knowing looks. A habit that had now expanded to following him around.

"I'd distract her, but she's got eyes only for you." Brèves tore him out of his contemplations as she fluttered her fan open and shut a couple of times in mock annoyance. "What a shame," she said, "I put on such a nice dress."

Suzanne de Brèves, so it was safe to assume, was unknown to Milady – or at least her status as the cardinal's spy was. She had not been working yet for Richelieu by the time Milady had been dismissed. In fact, it had not been until a month after that debacle that Brèves had walked into the Palais Cardinal and straight up offered the Cardinal her services as she felt any patriot should. Or rather, as any young noble who wanted to go places should. She had proposed reporting on the English, since she had been called to the court of Charles I to join the retinue of Henriette of France, sister to King Louis XIII and queen consort of England. 

From there she had been dismissed and sent back to France half a year later in the wake of feathers ruffled by Madame de Chevreuse who had once been employed in a similar position, but by that time only appeared interested in causing the cardinal as much trouble as possible. Despite Brèves' dismissal Richelieu must have liked her work during the short period enough to keep her on the payroll - and even more so to keep her on it after his presumed death. 

Boileau had no idea whether she knew as much of Richelieu's plans as he did – talking about such matters would mean a breach of trust and warrant an immediate dismissal, if not worse – but having her with him at court was a comfort. It was only in this particular instance that she did not prove as much of a support as he would have liked: 

"Anyway, I have got to get going." She closed her fan and threw him an apologetic look.

Boileau sighed, dreading the confrontation he expected to take place the moment she was gone. 

"Since I can't do anything with my audience here, would you take a message to The Boxer for me?" 

Brèves tapped her fan against her temple lightly, signifying that yes, she would, and leant in close as if to allow him to kiss her cheek while Boileau whispered what he had to share. 

She had not been gone half a minute before Milady approached him. 

"Fancy seeing you here, Antione." She wore that smug expression Boileau had come to associate with her and that he presently hated. 

"Care to walk with me?" 

Boileau would have grumbled, but there was no refusing the king's mistress without good reason, and especially not in the semi public of the Royal Gardens. So instead he said: "My pleasure," and offered her his arm.

Milady's smug expression brightened into a more genuine looking smile.

"I spotted you in the king's presence many times as you no doubt spotted me." 

"I'm surprised you came back." Boileau did not bother with faking as companionable a tone as she did. Milady did not appear bothered by it.

"You know me." She laughed. "I invite myself when the opportunity presents itself."

She fell quiet for a moment, seemingly distracted by the daffodils she examined with an appraising look as they walked. Boileau could not shake the sensation of something icy crawling up his spine. 

"It appears you've joined the retinue of the Duc de Longueville since leaving the cardinal", she said when she eventually broke her silence. "Interesting choice. Some people suspect him to support a new Fronde against the king. I wonder what Richelieu thinks of it."

"Milady, the cardinal is dead. You've since switched allegiances as well. Why dwell on the past?" 

But Milady continued as if he had not spoken: "And you keep such charming company nowadays. Madame de Brèves? Before I left Paris last year you were still courting the cardinal's, hm, great-niece, wasn't it? I thought I'd heard you still did." She turned her head to smile at him. "Now that the cardinal isn't standing in your way any longer there's no need to prolong the engagement. Or is the old crow still demanding you to prove yourself before you can have her?"

"From beyond the grave? Don't be absurd."

"He is, isn't he?" She was looking at the flowers again, but Boileau could still see the glint of mirth shining in the corner of her eye. "Poor Antoine. When all you want is to take her home so badly!"

Boileau dropped Milady's arm as if stung. 

"Do you have to be so vulgar!" 

Another couple on a stroll could not restrain themselves from looking over to them at the shout. 

Making a tutting noise Milady grabbed his arm again, only this time her touch was far from a friendly gesture. She also pressed her fan to his side, and, behind it, through his velvet doublet Boileau could feel the steel tip of a blade ready to prick his kidney.

"Why don't we go somewhere more private?" A smile had found its way back onto Milady's face, and Boileau nodded, grim. 

She steered him along forthe couple of steps it took them to enter a nearby pavilion. Its wooden pillars and screens, painted white, shone blindingly bright in the sunlight outside, and, as Boileau noted, once they were inside shielded them from the casual glances of any nobles passing by.

"Don't play games with me, Antoine." Her voice was sweet. "We're both the cardinal's creatures."

"If you kill me you'll know nothing. Except his ire." He squared his jaw. "And just for your information, Claire and I are still engaged."

But Milady only rolled her eyes at him, withdrawing the blade back into her wide sleeves. 

"Don't be so melodramatic. Walk off if you want, but I recommend you stay and hear what I have to suggest."

"What do you want?"

"Just to talk." 

"About? Dead people?"

"Oh, not exclusively. But dead people are rather interesting nowadays." She sat down on the bench pegged to one wall of the pavilion, patting the space next to her invitingly. But Boileau was not in a mood to play along. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and remained standing, looking down at her. With a sigh Milady rose back to her feet.

"For such a meticulous man the cardinal left a right mess behind," she said, stepping close to him. "Almost as if he had planned to delay having his effects sorted as long as possible. And this circumstance isn't helped by the disappearance of his chief and favourite secretary."

"Charpentier, yes." Boileau remained unimpressed while Milady continued to violate his personal space. "But he didn't disappear so much as – according to his family – he went to the colonies, looking for an investment. They're not hiding this information. You know the cardinal paid him well."

"Odd then, that there is no documentation of him ever having boarded a ship. Almost as odd as the cardinal's chief notary retiring at the same time and proving just as elusive."

Boileau snorted.

"What makes you think I'd know anything about that? You were more of a confidante to Richelieu than I ever was."

Milady paced silently for a moment, no doubt readjusting her tactics. 

"I'm so glad I came to you. I was thinking about having a chat with Fauchet at first, but he appeared occupied with dogging Rochefort. What a curious choice. I never thought of him as a yes-man. But as you said, as the great cardinal's creatures we all have to adjust after his death."

Boileau was too good to react to her bringing up Fauchet. The vicomte had been with the cardinal much longer than Boileau, so of course Milady would about know him and watch his steps as well. 

Milady did not let on whether she was disappointed by his lack of a reaction and continued talking:

"And then I saw you and remembered you were always more engaging to talk to than that stuffy peacock anyway, and so I did as we all have to, and adjusted. Fauchet's so full of himself and his family honour. So loyal to the throne; brother and father heroically gave their lives in battle for France..." She wrinkled her nose. "It's disgusting. But _you_ have none of that, don't you?"

"If you're only out to insult me—"

"Oh!" Her expression was a mixture between a grin and an eye roll, as if she could hardly believe having made the choice to talk to Boileau instead of Fauchet. "You know I didn't come to you only to insult you. That's merely a bonus."

Boileau eyed the exit in the least subtle manner he could muster without hurting his eyes or being mistaken for a mime.

"You better have a good reason if you want to convince me to stay."

But even as he spoke Boileau knew he was half-hooked already. Even if he walked away now he would end up trying to find out what she was going to tell him, what she thought she knew. Seeing how eager she was to talk he would not even have to return the courtesy and pull a knife on her. Waiting for her to come crawling to him, bursting with secrets, would be much sweeter.

But then he saw the glint in her eye and the chill returned to his spine:

"Does Claire know about your visits to Madame de Charaux' salon every Wednesday?"

Boileau found himself flat-footed for a fraction of a second.

"Of course she does! I go there to read—"

"And," Milady interrupted him, "to drink with her after the other guests leave."

"So? We're friends. She's my father's cousin. She'll tell Claire herself."

"So many female friends you have. You enjoy the company of women?"

"Most of them." The ice had left his spine and crept into his voice. In fact, his spine felt heated now, just like his cheeks.

Milady took the insult with grace. She started walking the few feet across the pavilion, but did not make the mistake of taking her eyes off him. 

"Madame Charaux can tell Claire a lot. But so can I. I'm fashionable right now, you know?"

His mouth went dry.

"It would be a shame to lose her, wouldn't it? And her no doubt sizable dowry."

Boileau felt the heat spilling into his words: "The only one you're demeaning right now, _Milady_ de Winter, is yourself. I don't want her for her dowry."

"No, but your family does."

Boileau huffed, but swallowed any reply he could have mustered. It was true that their engagement had not been a match of love – at least not as far as their families were concerned. Richelieu wanted influence over the coastal cities the Boileau's governed, and the Boileau's needed the interest and investments of one of the richest families in France to convert those cities into actual, safe seaports.

But in addition to that Richelieu wanted his great-niece to marry a man who could prove that valued her highly enough to work for their union before carrying her away. The shame in which one of his sisters lived caused by the open neglect her husband subjected her to was an inexhaustible fountain of vexation to the cardinal.

Unsurprisingly, Milady knew all about it. Not for a second did Boileau doubt that the great cardinal had told her the details himself, once upon a time, before her fall from grace. When she had still been his favourite agent.

Equally unsurprisingly, she now used the knowledge gleaned from her former employer to wreak her revenge. 

Boileau spat. "You snake."

Milady sent him a patronising look that made her eyes sparkle. 

"Mmh, don't act all victimised. Listen to what I have to say, and if I'm right about your state of employment I'll be talking to the great man soon rather than the great-niece."

Boileau sighed in what he had to admit to himself to be defeat. 

"Fine," he said. "Talk."

* * *

Once Milady left Boileau hastened out of the palace grounds. Waiting for his horse to be readied and delivered to him had never felt as torturous. He had hardly mounted before he spurred the beast on to take him into town. He only intended to have a small glass of wine in a comfortable tavern. Only one small glass to calm his nerves. 

Or maybe a series of small glasses.

He seated himself in the darkest, most withdrawn corner of the taproom and had just reached the best bit of part three of his series of red Bordeaux when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder, pulling him out of his seat to slam him against the wall. 

Boileau gasped, reaching for a weapon. But his sword and pistol were lying on the table, looking at him all innocent and out of reach.

The wine that fogged up his brain only grudgingly let him remember that he still had his parrying dagger on him when he recognised the gruff voice of the former captain of the king's musketeers barking at him: 

"I know you're one of his!"

This was not a good day to be Antoine de Boileau.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I doing to you? Starting the sequel with a chapter entirely about minor characters! What was I thinking? Well, since this is going to get somewhat plottier than "Blessed are those who mourn" I felt like I needed to widen the scope and grant you all a glimpse of what's going on behind the scenes of Richelieu's Great Disappearing Act. 
> 
> But at least I can promise you I'm not planning on switching away from Richelieu and Treville often, and we'll be back with our principal players in the next chapter.


	2. Virtues: Temperance

Treville was not coming. 

Even before Cahusac opened his mouth to confirm it the realisation had sunken to the bottom of Richelieu's guts heavy as a stone.

Treville was not coming.

The cardinal had been pacing in front of the fireplace, dictating a letter to his secretary, Denis Charpentier, who had finally been able to join him at the chateau the month before, when the captain of his current bodyguard had announced himself with a knock. 

The study and in fact all the rooms that Alphonse de Richelieu had supplied his younger brother with were far enough removed from the courtyard that no one residing there would be able to hear a rider arrive. On the one hand this meant a slight risk as Richelieu was entirely dependent on members of his staff to report every arrival, best before any guests even entered the courtyard. But on the other hand it ensured Richelieu the absolute privacy he needed and that prevented any accidental visitors from spying anything they should not. But as Richelieu had since his death surrounded himself with only the most loyal inner circle of his private court, being found out by a surprise visitor appeared to him only a remote possibility. 

Therefore the cardinal had known even before Cahusac entered the study that a courier had arrived with news from Paris.

News that told him, among other things, that Treville was not coming.

Part of him had already guessed at the latter when only one rider had been reported approaching. The rest of him had still held out hope that this person he expected daily to arrive merely followed a league behind the courier. But those fantastical hopes had been dashed and laid to restamongst their countless predecessors as soon as he saw Cahusac's expression. Of course the captain showed no open apprehension or disappointment in his face, but the fact that as soon as he began his report he had put on the stony mien of the veteran bracing for the foul mood of his superior told Richelieu as much.

As old and as handy as Cahusac was at this game of playing a rock after years spent not only in the cardinal's service, if he had any other news to bring a spark of relief would still have shown in his eyes. But instead, Cahusac had appeared concerned underneath his stony mien. By now the soldier had been long enough with the cardinal for Richelieu to be able to read his tells, no matter how subtle. But whether that concern was limited only to the cardinal or extended towards their mutual acquaintance Richelieu did not know.

"No reply, as usual?"

"None, Your Eminence. The courier returned your note unopened."

"Hm."

Richelieu dismissed his secretary wishing him a good night even though it could be hardly past nine. Usually they kept the same hours here as they had at the Palais Cardinal, meaning there would always be something to do until it was time for Richelieu's midnight prayers. But tonight Richelieu suspected he would not be in the mood for overtime.

As Charpentier vacated the desk Richelieu let himself down into his seat with a sigh. He felt that sunken stone of disappointment and dread move deep within his bowels: the familiar pangs of worry and unease dragged him down.

He looked up just in time to see Charpentier shoot a glance at Cahusac as he passed by the captain, but only managed to do so because the soldier was less adept than the secretary at concealing his answering glance. In Cahusac's defence it had to be said that few people had trained their eye to spot these things as sharply as Richelieu had, and even fewer knew to control their body language and expressions as well as Charpentier. 

Richelieu pretended not to have seen anything and Cahusac continued their by now customary exchange:

"Do you wish to hear it from the courier?"

"No, thank you."

As usual he relied on Cahusac's digest rather than questioning the messengers himself. The courier would relay any verbal messages he had been given to Cahusac who would also leaf through the written reports for an immediate overview in order to decide what needed the cardinal's attention first. If there was anything in the reports that needed to be examined in detail Richelieu's secretaries – the number of which had been reduced to two for the entire time he played dead – were obliged to go through the written reports anyway. Not only did they consume less of the cardinal's time that way, the couriers were also saved from suffering the cardinal's moods after their no doubt trying journey on which they had to take greatest care to remain unobserved. 

If Cahusac envied them – particularly since the cardinal's temper had grown ever shorter during the last couple of weeks – he was careful not to show it. 

This was the sixth invitation Treville had refused and the third in as many weeks he had declined to even receive. 

Most of these invitations had been delivered by mounted courier, since the last coach Richelieu had sent to pick him up Treville had entirely failed to take notice of, and it was foolish to risk anyone catching on to the secret of the coaches while they were so unlikely to be needed. 

This last coach had been intended to pick up the captain right upon leaving the Louvre. Only the captain had not shown up that day; had been seen neither entering or leaving the palace. The soldier who had been disguised as a footman for the trip had eventually decided to go inquire about Treville at the garrison at about the same time the night courier had brought the news of what had transpired in that busy Parisian marketplace - and later in the palace - to Richelieu. The coach had returned without its regular passenger the next day.

Immediately Richelieu had sent out another rider with a note that asked after Treville's state of health and implied what good a day's ride might do him. While social calls by coach in the place of his disgrace might appear even stranger now than before the dismissal there was nothing unusual about Treville receiving his private correspondence at the garrison by traditional means. 

The rider had returned with the letter unsealed but without a response. 

As the captain had been relieved of his duties Richelieu had expected Treville to move out of the garrison, maybe return to his estate in Gascony for a while to recover and regroup. Richelieu had intended to offer him a different destination for his vacation until he would be reinstated in his command, but so far Treville had avoided giving him a chance to even make the offer. 

"Anything else to report on that front?"

Cahusac shook his head. 

"Nothing out of the ordinary. But then it has only been two days since his return."

A thoughtful noise remained Richelieu's only response. A couple of days ago Treville had ridden out of the city with a number of his favourite musketeers in tow, apparently without any Royal order having been issued. 

For a while Richelieu had feared that Treville had returned to his home in Gascony without taking the proper leave of the king first, which would have meant a scandalous affront. But then it had turned out he had only been to an inconsequential little town named Pinon, apparently the estate of one of the musketeers. All of which had transpired without the king ever having taken notice of their absence. 

That alone should have been sufficient to lay the matter to rest in Richelieu's mind: There were no repercussions to be feared on behalf of Treville and obviously the matter had been an internal affair of the musketeers, nothing to do with his plans. Yet the incident proved a mystery, irresistible in its obliqueness. None of their contacts in Paris had been able to unravel it for them and since Cahusac had successfully talked him out of wasting precious resources by sending agents to Pinon, Richelieu still knew nothing of what had transpired there apart from the fact that Treville had left with three musketeers and returned with four. 

Once the initial shock at Treville's carelessness had passed Richelieu had hoped that whatever prompted the little excursion had provided Treville with something to report – or the mood to finally come and see him – hence the renewed invitation. But it appeared that this hope, too, had been in vain. 

And still the cardinal could not deny his growing concern on behalf of the captain. Just as he was unable to snuff the hope of there being something to report from the musketeer's garrison that Cahusac had simply missed. 

"So, what about the ordinary?" he asked and regretted the question immediately.

"Soon our agents are going to wonder why they are reporting on who shovels shit in which horse's box. Pardon my language, Your Eminence." 

Richelieu voiced his displeasure with a grunt. There were a lot of things he had to talk about to Treville. If the latter ever deigned to visit again.

"Tell them there are many ways to serve France." Richelieu said after a pause, but the humour sounded flat to his own ears. 

While Richelieu's main goal was to rob his would-be assassin of his main allies and to prepare his eventual return to Court he had his people keep one eye on the current events in Paris as well. From courtiers to functionaries in high offices of state to palace guards and stable boys people from every conceivable walk of life informed Richelieu's covert network – some of them knew who they ultimately worked for, most of them did not. 

Some of the first group, a select few, like Cahusac and Charpentier, had known from the start that his demise had been a sham. Others had been activated after a bit of delay, after Richelieu had watched whom they aligned themselves with following the supposed death of their patron. Those that had made the wisest choices were kept on the payroll and presently supplied the cardinal with a steady flow of secrets. 

With their help the eyes he had turned onto the Royal court were kept wide open and his ears remained far from deaf, despite his physical removal from the scene. 

But keeping an eye on the musketeers' garrison and their captain turned out infinitely harder, especially as Treville had not been to the palace or met with any members of the Royal Court since his dismissal. In fact, he hardly appeared to leave the garrison these days. 

The musketeers in turn took the demotion of their beloved captain hard. They reacted to his fall from grace with a closing of ranks. Any inquiry as to what their former commander was up to nowadays was met with hostility and suspicion. Even when the soldiers were encountered stumbling out of a tavern, three sheets to the wind their loyalty remained unshakable. They had been caught flat-footed by the event, but any uncertainty about the altered standing of their regiment manifested only in taciturn confusion. Not a single musketeer could be tempted to utter a word of reproof or disappointment in Treville, let alone be convinced to report on him. 

So instead they had to rely on deliverymen, messengers and relatively newly replaced members of the kitchen staff for any information about the goings-on at the garrison. And even then some of those had to bribed with a king's ransom first.

Under different circumstances Richelieu would have been impressed by the amount of confidence and loyalty Treville inspired in people. But in this case it was a nuisance. 

Accordingly people as involved in Richelieu's affairs as Cahusac had been none too pleased about his obsession with the former captain of the musketeers and the resources it cost them.

"Your Eminence." Cahusac interrupted his train of thought. "We can postpone this until tomorrow."

But Richelieu only sat up straighter and glared at him. "There'll be no need for that," he said. "I am perfectly able to make decisions without being reassured by the good captain's presence or his love-letters, thank you."

Richelieu was not a young farm girl who had been seduced and left pining for a gentleman soldier who had long since absconded along with his false promises. His concern was driven by more than longing for his lover.

Treville had not been the only one who had provided insight into Court affairs over the last couple of weeks. Richelieu had many different agents who could do that. But Treville had been right at the king's side, not only privy to Louis' plans and thoughts, but had also ensured their monarch's protection and provided a balance to more unstable elements at Court, like Rochefort.

With him removed from the scene Richelieu's return would meet delay. Of course, he was also concerned about the curious fashion in which Treville apparently chose to deal with his dismissal on a more personal level, but that was beside the point. Despite his personal feelings they had lost a valuable asset. 

He was just going to signal Cahusac to commence his report when he was interrupted by a knock at the door, and one of his guards poked his head in.

"Excuse the disturbance, Your Eminence." The guard bowed his head. "There are riders approaching. It's Treville. Boileau is with him."

* * *

Antoine Boileau was one of the courtiers who had been in the cardinal's pocket for years. The young nobleman had extended his portfolio to spying on his fellow nobles at court some time ago in the hopes of proving to Richelieu that he was worthy of marrying into the cardinal's family. The courtship had been someone prolonged by Richelieu having to disappear for these last couple of months but as Boileau was one of the few agents who had been trusted with the knowledge of Richelieu's relocation it was obvious that the cardinal would trust him with his great-niece as well once he returned to court.

Or rather, Richelieu would do so if Boileau made himself scarce within the next couple of seconds. He thought he had made it abundantly clear from the start that he intended to receive Treville alone whenever the captain stayed at the chateau. _Former captain_ Richelieu corrected himself and groaned at the thought. 

Treville and he had a lot to talk about. 

Yet, currently Boileau stood in the cardinal's way, preventing him from entering the study in which he usually had Treville await him. 

There was a sheepish expression on his youthful face. 

"I'm sorry," Richelieu's prospective in-law stammered and finally stepped aside once he noticed that the cardinal was not stopping for him. "I tried to tell him it was not within my authority to take him here, but he insisted—"

Richelieu waved his hand and Boileau shut up.

"This is neither the time, nor the place. Anything you have to say you can tell Captain Cahusac."

He spared the young man not as much as a second glance as he opened the door to the adjoining room. Upon entering the sparsely furnished study he was greeted by the sight of Treville once more sitting in front of the familiar fireplace, frowning. The musketeer's expression did not brighten once he looked up at Richelieu. 

"I'm here."

The cardinal felt dread accumulating in his gut like an avalanche. Perhaps talking to Boileau first would not have been such a terrible idea. 

Thinking of the young nobleman reminded him to shut the door behind him, before he focused his attention back on Treville. He should feel relieved now that the man had finally shown up, but he could not help but feel confused instead. Whatever had prompted the musketeer to finally come to him, Richelieu doubted it was cheerful news. 

"What are you doing here?"

"You invited me."

"Yes. Several times. You saw fit to decline each and every one of those invitations."

"So I changed my mind."

It took some effort to swallow his frustration about Treville's evasiveness, but Richelieu still managed it, lest he be tempted into shouting at the man he had wished to come to him for weeks now. 

"You can't apprehend my agents in broad daylight and force them to take you here."

Treville did not bash an eyelid at the cardinal's indignation: "You never told me where this place is and neither would he. So I made him show me."

"We had arrangements for this." Richelieu gesticulated in the general direction of the courtyard. "The carriages, horsemen—"

Treville stood.

"I won't be summoned at your beck and call!" 

There it was. Anger. But Richelieu doubted the coaches were the true issue behind Treville's abrasiveness. They had similar arguments when he had first invited Treville to the chateau. Back then the musketeer had accepted the necessity of the arrangement, so Richelieu could not help but deduce that this time Treville was arguing for the sake of arguing. And while arguing had been an essential – and therapeutic – part of their relationship in the past it did not take a bright mind to sense there was something deeper to this.

Well, what could the former Captain of the King's Musketeers possible be so upset about?

"I see you're fine then. When I heard you'd been dismissed I was worried you'd be broken up about it; angry—"

Treville crossed the room in two brisk paces and only stopped right in front of Richelieu, their faces merely inches apart.

"You better believe I'm angry! What have you been doing all this time?"

Richelieu barely blinked at having his personal space invaded, but the accusation stung.

"Are you quite sure it's me you're upset at?"

Treville stared at him, red-faced. 

"Of course I am! This is your mess!"

"My dear, … Jean. Care to elaborate on what my 'mess' is?" Not being able to refer to Treville as his dear _Captain_ anymore would take some getting used to. Turning a rank into an endearment had been natural for them, especially as it prevented them from slipping up in public, such as calling each other by their given names. 

So of course Treville had to notice his lover practically biting his tongue in front of him avoiding the title. It did nothing to quell his anger. But it also added a melancholy note to his gaze.

"Everything!"

Treville finished.

Richelieu could not help but smile at this anger-fuelled lack of eloquence.

Treville took a breath and rubbed his brow before continuing. 

"The king listens to no one but Rochefort. He's falling out with the queen. And there's my," he hesitated, "position."

"And you're blaming me? You know it's Rochefort who set you up, don't you?"

"You told me to leave Rochefort alone! Look where it's gotten me! And where he is! At this rate the king's going to make him first minister before the month is out."

Richelieu sighed heavily. 

"I asked you not to antagonise him. I didn't expect you to take that as an invitation to roll over for him!"

Treville stared at him again and this time there was steel in his gaze.

"How dare you!"

Richelieu could feel a headache coming. No wonder; Rochefort was a walking headache. 

"How dare you? I had to deal with him every day, while you sit here and do nothing."

"Do you think it's easy staying put while you— while Rochefort is messing up the palace?"

"You've been 'staying put' for months now and I can see no progress! You're still sitting here. The Court's still the same mess apart from everyone who's left because they can't stomach Rochefort!"

"That's because this is a covert operation! Why do you think I'm still hiding here? Because I enjoy my brother's sermons so much?"

"Obviously, you're not doing enough!"

"I have other priorities than Rochefort. Perhaps if you could stop mucking out stables long enough you'd be able to see it!"

Treville drew himself up in front of him and Richelieu realised they were heading nowhere, fast.

Whether or not the musketeer was about to voice another protest Richelieu interrupted him with a gesture. He raised his hands, palms flat and out and said "look."

Continuing their argument would get them nowhere. In the worst case it would only prompt Treville to storm off and leave when Richelieu had so much wanted to get him here. In a moment of madness he had even thought he would be able to offer comfort. He was no closer to that as he had been when Treville was still sulking in Paris. 

If he meant to find some accord between them one of them had to swallow their pride, and Treville currently appeared not to be in an emotional position in which he could be persuaded to back down easily. Treville felt betrayed and abandoned – by Louis, but also by Richelieu, regardless of whether or not the sentiment was justified. And without his position as captain that he had grown into so much over the last decade he had to feel bereft of all his anchors. 

Richelieu, meanwhile, could still see clearly. He could see what Treville wanted and what he needed, which was, for once, a show of trust. 

Luckily for them both, this was something Richelieu could give him. 

"One of my couriers arrived shortly before you did. He carried despatches collected from my agents in Paris and I'm having my council assemble later tonight to review them. I want you to sit and hear what we discuss. And I want to hear your thoughts on it."

"You do?" Treville sounded cold, his face a mask. But Richelieu could still tell that he was intrigued: His eyes were curious, alive, and almost imperceptibly he leant closer towards Richelieu. 

"I do."

Treville's expression began to soften, starting by lifting the corners of his mouth. 

"When will this council meet?"

"Give them about an hour to process the information and check our options."

"And until then?"

Richelieu remembered their very first meeting in this room and said, "wine?"

* * *

After the promise to be included in their little council and once he sat down with a glass of wine Treville turned out a lot more agreeable. 

He offered the story of what had transpired at Pinon freely, without any other prompting from Richelieu than the cardinal topping up his glass from time to time. 

The cardinal did not interrupt much, but winced at the description of father and son Renard. They were exactly the kind of obstinate, old-fashioned, feudalistic noblemen he sought to replace by a different class of country nobility on his way to secure absolute power over his domain for the king. 

"The villagers didn't all make it, and, by God, we gave it to those bastards." Treville looked into the fire as he talked. The flames illuminated his face in warm, orange light. "But I was happy there. The fighting, the organising." He sighed. "It was the first time I felt alive since I lost my commission."

In lieu of a reply Richelieu took a nip from his glass, heedful that he needed to be in full command of his mental capabilities during the meeting. He was sitting down as well, both of them half facing the fireplace, half facing each other. Given that Treville looked about to pour out his heart to him – never an easy task for the old soldier, and certainly not an activity they frequently engaged in – Richelieu had decided to let him have as much space as he wanted. 

He let the musketeer talk.

"There, at Pinon, I thought I could make this work." A bitter smile splayed across his face. "I missed the action of being a young soldier. A common soldier…"

Treville left the statement hanging between them in the room, but Richelieu did not need to figure the out the 'but' that concluded the statement no less certainly for remaining unspoken: _but then we returned to Paris_. 

After the excitement of Pinon they had returned to Paris. To the garrison. To daily routine. And to disgrace. 

Richelieu took another sip.

"But you're not a common soldier," he finished the thought. "You took charge." What he refrained from adding was that his lover simply could not go back to being a common soldier, let alone a young one, no matter how hard he tried. 

You could not be an equal to men you had once commanded. Neither could you go back to the mindset you had when you were twenty.

Still, Richelieu was not surprised that Treville had tried. This attempt to prove that he would do alright as a common soldier was his way of holding on to what he could of his life at the garrison. 

For, from what Richelieu was able to gather now Treville was here to shed light on the situation, sticking around and pretending to be a regular musketeer the king had not expressively forbidden. 

Shoveling shit, as Cahusac had put it, wherever he liked was something no one could possibly take from him. But that did not change the fact that it entailed Treville trying to live a life he had left behind with his twenties. Continuing in this fashion would destroy him. 

Daily being reminded of what he had lost while he haunted his former office could not be healthy.

"And this is what made you come here?"

Treville took a deep breath. Richelieu thought he looked a bit shaky but could not be sure at this distance in the dim light. But when Treville shot him a passing glance the unspoken words were written clear in his eyes, glittering hard as diamonds in the firelight:

_Where else would I go?_

"Why not leave Paris for a while?" Richelieu offered, trying to shake off the melancholy that had seized him. 

Treville continued to actively avoid facing him, giving preference to the fire over Richelieu. 

"I should leave, shouldn't I? Leave them, leave my … it's been my home for so long." 

The musketeer stared ahead for a while. If he blinked away a tear Richelieu was busy not noticing, making a show of searching for a reply in his wine glass instead. 

When Treville had left at a young age to become a soldier Troisville had been the estate of his father. Now it was the estate of his elder brother, Pierre, and would remain so until he died. Then it would pass onto Pierre's eldest son, if he happened to sire one before his time was up. 

Troisville and all its riches and dependencies would only ever belong to Treville if his brother happened to die childless, or if his future nephews died before their uncle. Not a cheery thought. But even then, even if the estate passed into his possession, to Treville it would be just some place in Gascony. A place he had spend less time in than the town of his birth or in a king's regiment. It was, as Treville had once admitted to him, a place characterised by the wrong confession, wrong dialect, and wrong mentality.

This admission had been part of Treville's exuberant, drunken happiness at being made a lieutenant in the late king's favourite light cavalry regiment. It had been proof of Treville having made something of himself, on his own; away from that place. It had been so long ago now, when they had both been much younger and much stupider. 

Back then there had still been moments in which they believed there were matters that could be fixed by wine and horny fumbling in the dark.

If only things were as simple and lovers' woes as easily solved! 

His career, culminating in the captaincy of the musketeers was the life Treville had built himself to make up for a home that would never be his. The musketeers had been supposed to be his legacy. They still could be, but now he might be forced to leave this legacy to someone else within his lifetime. 

A whole life's worth of ambitions and dreams gone in a heartbeat.

Lost in a sea of memory of his own Treville appeared not to have noticed Richelieu's thoughts drifting away. He took no offense at Richelieu's twitching in surprise when the musketeers started talking again, softly. Words mumbled rather than spoken: 

"I can't be one of them. I've tried."

Even though Richelieu had voiced the same sentiment only minutes before, hearing it from Treville was a problem. Richelieu always believed that, barring accidents, Treville had a fair chance to outlive him. But he now realised that when the musketeer retired he would die. He needed this life, the life of a musketeer. But the life of a mere soldier was not enough. He needed to lead, to command. There was no way back for him. 

Treville had nothing else to ground him. No wife, no children, no hobbyhorse like a vineyard – that hardly would have offered enough action anyway – or horse breeding – which he was too old to learn. There would be nothing else to hold him. Not even Richelieu. Because there was nothing that the cardinal could offer him that was not confined to the shadows and hushed whispers. 

If they were anyone else, if the were a normal couple, a real couple, Richelieu would tell him he had a home with him. But they were no ordinary couple and they could never make a home together. 

Assuming they even were close enough for Treville to consider accepting any offer Richelieu could make. But the suggestion alone sounded ludicrous enough in the cardinal's mind to banish the thought. 

They shared sex, yes. They discussed many issues with each other freely, and so far they had recovered from each and every fight, no matter how severe. Somehow they had always ended up being drawn to one another again. 

But sharing a living space, day-to-day? Could they ever be so domestic? Would they not start plotting each other's demise after a couple of weeks?

Richelieu could offer Treville occupation as the captain of his own guard, but he doubted that the musketeer would accept or had any chance of being happy in the position. From sitting at the king's war table and coordinating sieges he would be reduced to supervising the weekly parade, checking registers and muster books and conducting the occasional arrest. Even the lifeguarding duties would strike him as rather boring, since the cardinal's enemies have turned to prefer poisons over daggers, and most of the guard duties would be relegated to the common soldier anyway, not their captain.

The Captain of the King's Musketeers was no ordinary captain. The Captain of the Red Guard was. 

With one exception: The position in Richelieu's network of agents that Cahusac presently filled in addition to his other duties, as important as Treville was to him, was a position Richelieu wanted to keep the musketeer far away from. It was a position all of France wanted him to stay far away from. 

But all this was academic talk of course. As soon as he was back in office he would make Louis see reason and Treville would have his musketeers back. And should the captain ever get the chance to retire after that … well, they would have to figure something out. 

What else could they do?

"This won't last," Richelieu said eventually, offering to refill Treville's glass. "You will be captain again."

"What makes you so sure?"

Richelieu wished the soft timbre of Treville's voice made it less obvious that the musketeer was prepared to believe anything Richelieu promised him as long as he made it sound convincing.

"It's been weeks and Louis has not even proposed a possible replacement for you. Nor does he seem to mind that you still occupy your old office."

Richelieu became aware that he might have missed his mark when Treville furled his brow and said "I live there" in a perplexed tone as if he had not even considered yet that Louis could either kick him out of his home, or do the same to the musketeers he housed there. 

This called for heavy measures. Richelieu stood up and walked over to Treville who rested his chin on one hand, lost in what had to be none too pleasant thoughts. 

Briefly brushing his exposed neck Richelieu put a hand on his lover's shoulder. 

"Louis loves you. He had to mete out some form of punishment after Perales' death, but he'll forgive you as soon as Spain settles down again."

"He's not making these decisions alone," Treville countered, but he also reached for the hand on his shoulder. Richelieu let him take it. 

"Right now you are in a dark place." When Treville made as if to protest Richelieu shushed him by stroking his neck with his free hand. "It is tainting your view on things, but I know our king well. Trust me."

Treville leant into his touch, silent, somewhat relaxing his tense expression. Continuing the movement of his hand Richelieu leant down, bending over the musketeer who turned his face up to meet his lips, when they were interrupted by a knock at the door. 

They straightened themselves immediately, Treville looking worried again. But it was only Cahusac announcing that Richelieu's small council was ready and waiting for the cardinal. 

Treville rose as he greeted the captain of the guard while at the same time Richelieu removed his hand that had darted from the neck to his shoulder and lingered there. 

"Let's not keep them waiting, shall we?" His hand returned to rest on Treville's shoulder blade. "Monsieur de Treville will accompany us."

Cahusac took the announcement in his stride – both the information that Treville would be joining them, and the new form of address, at which the former captain could not help but wince. 

The sooner he got back to Court to fix things the better, Richelieu thought.

They followed Cahusac through the chateau, passing the office Richelieu had sat in with Charpentier only an hour ago, and into a slightly larger, oblong room. It was furnished with an oval table at one side of which sat Richelieu's council. One of the chairs on that side was sill empty, reserved for Cahusac, as was another one on the other side of the table that Richelieu occupied during meetings. 

Two seats were already occupied by Richelieu's secretaries, Charpentier and Le Masle. 

As they were one seat short Cahusac shifted his chair to the unoccupied head of the table, offering it to Treville, while he waited for an extra chair to be procured. Richelieu made the musketeer accept the seat when it looked like he was going to decline both out of politeness as well as what was probably a sense of temporary inferiority, born out of jealousy of Cahusac's rank. 

Richelieu could not allow himself to become too sour over his lover's lack of confidence. But neither could he help but recall a line of thought from earlier in the evening: _there were few if any matters that could be fixed by wine and horny fumbling in the dark_ , yet maybe this was a case that warranted trying, later. Either that or presenting Treville with Rochefort's head on a platter, which was another appealing thought to be stored away for another later.

Once they were all of them seated except for Cahusac Richelieu bid his secretaries to begin. 

No doubt they all picked up on the tension emanating from the cardinal and the former captain. It was a tension not of anger, but one of melancholy and heavy silence. As if to ease the meeting along despite it Charpentier began with some light news from the palace:

"It appears the king and queen have been invited to observe the coming eclipse at the observatory of an astronomer called Marmion."

It was an odd bit of news, but Richelieu immediately perked up. One could never be too careful where Louis and his special interests were involved. 

"I take it one of ours secured an invitation as well?"

"Of course."

Richelieu leant back in his seat and steepled his fingers. 

"I want you to find out everything you can about this Marmion before the eclipse."


	3. Virtues: Patience

They escorted the Royal party back to the Louvre without incident. The unhurried pace at which the Royals approached the building upon stepping out of their carriage belied the turmoil that had to be driving them towards the safety of the royal apartments. But in the end it was the only proper way for them to behave. Louis was a king and Anne was a queen and their regal composure was the aid that kept them from falling apart. 

The king's mood had sobered during the ride. The joy of being reunited with his son had passed and been replaced by a thoughtful silence. At his side Anne looked equally statuesque, betraying no emotion. Treville followed a step behind. Taking up any other position never entered his mind. Obviously the king was not going to have a change of heart and ask him to join him once they reached the entrance hall. But Treville followed him anyway, and as he handed over the king and queen's safety to the palace guard, he told himself it was still a duty he had to fulfil. 

Just as expected Louis disappeared into the building without a word, and Treville turned around and ordered his musketeers back to the garrison. When they collected their horses to mount up he noticed Athos throwing glances in the direction of the entrance the Royal party disappeared through, no doubt looking for Milady who managed to slip inside behind the governess despite her unusual dress. At the same time Treville found himself face to face with D'Artagnan who, as discreetly as his youthful impatience allowed, was asking for leave to stay at the palace with Constance. 

Treville did not hesitate to decline his request. Under the circumstances Constance was not to be separated from the queen, and the queen's maid would hardly appreciate having d'Artagnan lurk around the palace, distracting her. Even if not freed from his duties per se, even if allowed to kick his heels doing guard duty on the palace grounds instead, d'Artagnan would only end up worrying about his Constance, and not without reason. Treville planned on finding some work for him to do at the garrison to occupy his mind until the two young lovers could safely reunite when their duties for the day were done. 

Additionally Treville preferred having d'Artagnan at the garrison in order to have him thoroughly examined after the day's ordeal. Just not by Aramis, if at all possible, since Aramis had his own cuts and bruises to attend to. 

Turning to look at the musketeer in question Treville saw both him and Porthos already mounted. They were joking, but the unhappy lines on Porthos' brow revealed to any spectator how worried he was for his friend. 

Placing his hands on his horse's withers and saddle Treville hauled himself atop his own mount, but for a terrible second he thought he was barely going to make it into the saddle, as all his strength sapped away in a moment by a tiredness that struck to his very bones. But this moment, too, passed, and the next blink of the eye saw the musketeers headed towards their garrison. 

Treville did not yet know all that had transpired at the observatory before he arrived – having been led there by Milady of all people – but he could already tell his day was far from over.

As soon as they dismounted and his boots touched ground in the garrison courtyard he sent for a physician and told the four musketeers accompanying him to see him in the captain's office that was technically no longer his, yet in practice still was. 

_Old habits die hard_ , he thought, a wry look appearing on his face. Obviously his musketeers felt the same way. By all means they should tell him where to shove his orders and the commanding tone, as he no longer was their captain, only a fellow musketeer. But they never voiced a word of contempt. In all the days since his dismissal they had never stopped following his lead. 

Their loyalty made his heart ache, and not solely in a positive way. That happened too, of course. Their insistance to keep respectfully referring to him as "captain" filled him with a fondness for his men that warmed him to the core. But it also reminded him that it was stolen loyalty he basked in, and he doubted he deserved the zeal with which they reminded him of his place in their heads and hearts. They should be saving their unquestioning obedience for their new captain, who could not be long in arriving, instead of humouring a man who had let himself be blindsided by the likes of Rochefort so shamefully. 

_I asked you not to antagonise him_ , Richelieu had said when they had last seen each other. _I didn't expect you to take that as an invitation to roll over for him!_

The cardinal had been apologetic about his word choice later and had done everything he could to reassure Treville that he still held his trust and respect, but he had not been wrong, had he? Treville had been too passive, shrugging off every slight that had been dealt to him and the regiment as the caprices of his monarch, instead of taking Rochefort for what he was and calling him out on it.

Now he was paying the price for it. His stoicism had allowed Rochefort to worm his way into the king's affections unopposed, and the Comte had promptly taken every opportunity to ensure Treville would be unable to challenge him on that particular playing field in the future. If their interactions at the observatory were any indication Rochefort had climbed to the point at which Louis would not hear a single word said against him. Especially not from Treville. Perhaps from one of his other advisors from within the council, on a particularly lucky day. But even that seemed a very remote possibility by now. After all, today the good Comte had completely failed to protect his monarch, but still had been rewarded with a heartfelt embrace. 

And yet, even though Rochefort had beaten him, leaving the musketeers – and consequently their loyalty and respect – behind, appeared to Treville like cowardice. How could he possibly leave while the comte was in a position to humiliate the musketeers further? The thought of Rochefort or a man picked by him becoming the next captain of the regiment fed a hundred nightmares. 

All this went through his head as Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan followed him up the stairs to his erstwhile office. So when the door closed behind them and Treville turned to face his men, for a second he was at a loss for words.

He looked the musketeers over. They had been had exposed to the king's disfavour because of him and were consequently left to play second fiddle to Rochefort; condemned to pick up after the Comte with no word of praise or even thanks to be expected.

With the exception of Athos they all looked the worse for the wear: Aramis and d'Artagnan cut up and bruised; Porthos favouring his right shoulder. 

Treville regretted not having chosen to have this conversation at the mess tables where they could all have been far more comfortably seated, but they needed the privacy his office provided more than comfort. He put Aramis into the high-backed chair that used to sit behind his desk, had Athos grab the first convenient pieces of furniture he found in Treville's private chambers, and had them all seated in a lose half circle that took up the majority of the space in the cramped office. 

Treville remained standing, leaning his hip slightly against the desk. As much as he had in the beginning protested their continued deferring to him as their captain, the simple truth was that he was not a common musketeer. No words from him could make them stop seeing him as a figure of authority and they seemed to prefer it that way. Moments like this reminded Treville how he preferred it that way as well. 

He fixed Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan with his gaze, one after the other. "I need you three to tell me exactly what happened at the observatory before Athos and I arrived."

What they told him made him wish for a chair. 

Porthos' account was the least informative since he had been stuck in the dungeon with Rochefort during the worst of it. All Treville learned from him was that Rochefort had been as innocent about Marmion's true colours as the rest of them. Still Treville winced in sympathy when Porthos recounted how he had dislocated his shoulder. It called to mind his encounter with Labarge's boot last year all too vividly. 

Aramis was up next. Treville listened attentively as the musketeer recounted how he scaled the building rushing to the queen's aid, but still failed to do anything for the captured courtiers. Treville kept his reactions to the tale to a minimum. In the headspace of the commander there was no room for what ifs. There was no room for fretting over what might have happened to Aramis if there had not been an awning to break his fall. Or whether he could have prevented the murders if he had been but a moment quicker. Or what being slower might have meant for the queen and the dauphin. 

Still Treville knew the thought of what could have happened were to cost him sleep that night. 

And then d'Artagnan revealed the true extent of Marmion's delusions and his fellow musketeers grew still as they listened. From the looks of disbelief and revulsion on their faces d'Artagnan's tale was news to them as much as it was to Treville. 

Treville restrained his response to a nod. He was lucky enough to have the plague that ravaged all through Europe spare his home, until now, but he saw enough of the suffering caused by it during the last two campaigns fought in Italy to last him a lifetime. The last one of those had been particularly harrowing.

Quarantining whole communes was standard procedure. Adding to that the strife of war lead to unimaginable misery. 

Their camp had been threatened by plague more than once. But while the king's musketeers had been lucky to escape the disease, other regiments had been decimated by it. Desertion had been rife within the king's army, even before concern for their monarch's health had forced the guard regiments to retreat, leaving Richelieu to conclude the campaign on his own. 

Treville could not recall many occasions that had caused to be as concerned for the cardinal, nor as relieved at his eventual safe return. 

To be abandoned like Marmion had been; to be left to starve while the terror of plague loomed, and to have to watch his loved ones succumb to their fate was a kind of pain Treville found himself unable to fathom.

It explained why Marmion's heart and mind had shattered, but it did not excuse the murders he had committed. It did not excuse the cold hearted planning behind his twisted games. It did not excuse the effort it must have taken to establish him as the Court favoured astronomer with the sole aim to cause the king to suffer so inhumanly. 

It did not excuse the needless brutalisation of Treville's musketeers. 

And still none of what Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan had narrated explained how any of it had been allowed to happen. 

Treville was glad when Bernadotte finally announced Doctor Lemay's arrival. He was glad to leave his men in Lemay's care. He knew the doctor from Court as a good physician who employed some unusual methods which nevertheless tended to work far better than the traditional remedies. And he knew him as an even better man. 

But most of all Treville was glad for a chance to excuse himself. 

"There is some place I have to be," he said addressing all four musketeers while Lemay was busy examining the dark bruises around Porthos' shoulder. "Take it light until I'm back." He caught both Aramis' and Porthos' eyes. "You two are off duty until tomorrow afternoon."

He turned towards the youngest musketeer: "D'Artagnan, you go and help Serge."

D'Artagnan frowned at him, cheeks burning, as if he were on the verge of mutiny. Kitchen duty was a task for invalids or boys. But it was also predominantly light work that would not strain his abused body too much. Additionally Serge's lively company would serve beautifully to distract him from his worry about Constance.

"Since I'm not your captain anymore, I can't order you to take my advice." Treville knew being reminded of his lost commission unsettled the men, but he was never above a little trickery if it served the right cause. "But unless you think it's a good idea to separate the queen from her only friend at Court after they both have been through so much today, I suggest you help Serge feed your comrades and leave the ladies to themselves for an hour or two before heading towards the palace. Once Serge has no more need of you, you are excused until tomorrow afternoon as well." 

The little speech had d'Artagnan settle down. "Yes, Captain," he said and Treville felt his expression lighten on its own accord.

He turned to Athos who had fallen back into his taciturn nature but still followed the exchange with some interest. 

"See to it that neither of them shows their faces around here until I'm back."

* * *

"How did this happen?"

"We still don't know."

"That's not good enough, Denis. The king could have been killed!"

On a rational level Richelieu knew that shouting at his staff would not yield them the explanations they lacked any faster, but when you had to play dead to the world at large and as such were confined to the chateau of your unnervingly pious brother, shouting at people felt remarkably freeing.

His current victim was his chief secretary, Denis Charpentier, who was crouched over his desk writing a letter to one of their contacts at Monsieur's Court in Orléans, and who was beginning to display the first signs of rebellion:

"I can't tell you anything new, Your Eminence. No one arrived to bring any news since the last time you asked. And unless that changes, I won't be able to tell you anything different the next time you ask."

Richelieu huffed in response, but despite his anger he took the hint to stop breathing down his secretary's neck and left the room – not without closing the door somewhat more forcefully than he needed to. 

The secretary was one of the few people Richelieu tolerated such language from, but that did not mean he was entirely above showing his frustration through petty gestures. He doubted Charpentier minded as long as he was left alone for more than half an hour for once. 

No matter the style of his exit, Charpentier was not one to hold it against him. He had been Richelieu's secretary since the very start of his ecclesiastical career, and they knew each other's moods and secrets as well as if they were family. 

_Better than family_ , Richelieu corrected himself, thinking of Alphonse. 

While Alphonse Louis de Richelieu saw the need for his younger brother to retreat to the chateau in secret for a while in order to cleanse the royal court of intrigue and sin, he considered material wealth, political influence and power games – all things that made Richelieu the person he was – unworthy and beneath the care of a human soul, let alone that of a man of the cloth. Alphonse was also convinced that he himself was holy and chosen by God to do his bidding. Neither the bishopric nor the subsequent cardinalship Richelieu had secured for his brother so he could finally fulfil his duty towards his family – after the same had spent a decade in a monastery cleansing himself of the sins of all things material – had so far succeeded in alleviating his delusions. 

Suffice it to say that Richelieu was not too fond of spending time face to face with Alphonse and discussing either religion or politics.

As far as Richelieu's more delicate secrets were concerned… well. To Alphonse, who was as familiar with court politics as a fish was with the desert sand, Treville was nothing more than his younger brother's friend and ally in his staged disappearance. Alphonse was not even actively aware of their public rivalry and naturally even less so of anything between them that was less public. He did not share his brother's views of love and lust and the nature of love in the eyes of God and Richelieu did not look forward to ever having to explain to him how deeply he lived in sin. 

Charpentier, on the other hand, knew. Or so Richelieu suspected. They had never talked about Treville apart from official matters, but Charpentier was too professional and too worldly a man to lose much sleep over such matters in either case. 

With a start Richelieu realised he was heading towards the rooms allocated for the personal use of his other secretary and arrested his steps, sighing. 

Realising that he was seeking someone else to bother out of sheer restlessness he decided that there had to be more productive ways for him to be restless, even if at this precise moment he could think of very few. 

No matter how he tried to distract himself with dismissive, unworthy thoughts of his brother who so graciously hosted him and his staff, this new attempt on the king's life – had it truly only been hours? – was ever at the forefront of his mind. And no matter how Richelieu tried to distract himself from his inability to act Charpentier was right: They had to wait for news from the very horse's mouth before they could act. With Marmion and his associates dead rather than captured and the Royals being understandably taciturn about the events their means to establish what had transpired during the eclipse were limited. Their only sources so far had been the footmen and the couple of guards that had been left with the horses and carriage. 

Suzanne de Brèves who had been supposed to be Richelie's eyes and ears at the observatory had been killed along with the other courtiers who accompanied the Royal couple. 

Rochefort kept his mouth shut as well, as Fauchet reported, and knowing how unstable and volatile the man could react Richelieu had long ago advised that his agent not push him too hard. However, unless other sources were forthcoming they would have to try that route eventually.

But for now, an initial, quick assessment had settled them on Lady Marguerite as the most likely source to gain information. Relatively new to Court and as of yet practically friendless she might prove susceptible to a sympathetic ear willing to listen to the horrors she had lived through. From what Richelieu heard about her from his spies she was respectable and shockingly naïve regarding Court politics. To have her installed as the Dauphin's governess her family had called in an obscene amount of favours, as well as passed on a handsome sum of money to the crown. All in the name of augmenting their power and influence through a favourable marriage, and the hope of Lady Marguerite showing some skill at gaining the queen's ear and favour. 

Again Richelieu felt the loss of Brèves. Her breezy, playfully airheaded persona would have been perfect to win Marguerite's trust. 

Losing her like this stung. Not only because hiring and placing more spies at Court was currently made difficult by his peculiar position. But mainly because she had been good at her job. Even during the debacle at the English Court she had known exactly what to do and how to protect both her connection to the cardinal and their mutual allies. 

Only so shortly before Richelieu had been so pleased with her and the way she had immediately seized the opportunity to charm her way into being invited to join the Royal party. There had been so much she could have achieved for their cause. 

But now she was dead, because Richelieu he had not foreseen the true nature of the danger she had walked into. And that was unacceptable, because foreseeing things was _his_ job, and what he hired people for to enable him to do.

Which brought him back to why he had been shouting at his staff: Someone had failed to provide the piece of information that could have prevented the whole affair, and Richelieu would not rest until he found the person responsible and saw to it that they would not make the same kind of mistake ever again.

It was at that moment that one of his guard's approached him. "A rider, Your Eminence."

"It's not Passerat or Boileau by any chance?"

Richelieu expected Boileau back by the hour. The young man was to come to the chateau as soon as he could disentangle himself from his societal duties at court, which for today included an audience with the king's chancellor, who possessed the unfortunate vice of being in love with the sound of his own voice. 

"No, Your Eminence," the guard replied. "It's Monsieur de Treville."

Boileau really had a lot to answer for. 

Richelieu remembered Treville had been there when they had discussed the King's trip to the observatory and realised that the musketeer was unlikely to have come to the chateau merely for a social visit.

No doubt their conversation was going to prove interesting. But at least Richelieu should be able to convince Treville to coax what he could out of the musketeers who had survived their stay at the observatory. At least then Richelieu would have some answers, because as it was, he had no good news to tell Treville. 

Boileau and Brèves had been in charge of finding out what they could about Marmion's family and connections at Court, and Boileau especially had tried places of social gathering from salons to common taverns, but their investigations had been to little avail. Marmion had been a complete mystery to the Parisians, but an exciting mystery that had made him fashionable at Court. Subsequently all their hopes had rested on Passerat. 

Passerat, nicknamed _the Boxer_ by some of his more fanciful colleagues, was among the more curious but also most versatile members of Richelieu's net of spies. A mercenary bodyguard turned secretary he had come by recommendation of one of the more conventional agents Richelieu employed, namely Fauchet, whom Passerat had long served in both his capacities as guard and personal writer. As a man of impressive stature who not only knew how defend himself, but also was a man gifted with words who, thanks to his time spent among soldiers, knew how to talk to different classes of people, Passerat was a handy man to have around for missions that required travelling into uncharted territory.

Therefore the Boxer had been sent to the region Marmion had grown up in to uncover his background. He had not been the only agent they had sent outside Paris, but he had been the one to allegedly have found a lead and identified the astronomer's roots as having sprung up in a tiny, inconsequential speck of earth to the north, near the coast, named Gerberoy. Unfortunately he had not returned with whatever he had found out in Marmion's old home in time. In fact, the note he had sent that he had located the astronomer's home town and reached it safely had been the last anyone had heard of him. 

In the wake of what had transpired at the observatory Richelieu had sent Cahusac with a couple of his most trusted men to find out what kept Passerat, but they had left only three hours ago, and he could not expect their return for days. 

_If they returned at all_ , a nagging voice chided him from the back of his mind. 

There were many viable reasons for Passerat not to have reported back in on time. But one of them included Passerat disappearing from the scene voluntarily.

* * *

"How could this happen?"

Richelieu had expected some shouting, blame even. After all, the last time they had seen each other he had convinced Treville he would take the situation regarding Marmion in hand. But Treville's rage turned out to be a calm one this time. 

This did not mean Treville appeared cool and collected. Far from it: The rage simmered right beneath his skin. There was just a lack of shouting.

They met in the same damn study again and Richelieu decided the next time he felt restless he would have it redecorated. At the very least he would install some more comfortable chairs. Maybe a chaise longue. It was not like Alphonse cared that much about the interior design of his material dwellings. This was not even his primary residence.

"I'm assuming you're referring to Marmion," he said leaning against the mantelpiece only partly because he was treating the available chairs with scorn. But mostly because Treville stood as well and had started firing questions at him before Richelieu had even had the chance to cross the room. "Presently we're not sure what happened in the observatory."

Treville stared at him for a moment, slack-jawed. "How? You said you had a man in there!" 

"A woman. Suzanne de Brèves." Richelieu interrupted. "She died."

"I'm sorry." A sudden thought wrinkled his brow. "I had assumed, when your secretary said one of your agents had been invited, that you meant Milady."

"No. Milady doesn't work for me anymore. Not since the incident."

The incident had become code for the debacle with the queen. In the weeks following this incident their relationship had been somewhat cool. In fact it had not been until about three months before Richelieu's supposed death that they had found a proper ground to meet and rebuild on.

Treville made a gruff noise but did not dwell on the thought.

"She doesn't even know I'm alive." Richelieu felt something cold reach for his heart. "You didn't tell her anything?"

"No. God, no!" Treville ran a hand through his short hair. "Are you sure she doesn't know?"

"Do you suspect she does?"

"No. No. It was just a thought." Treville stepped closer and Richelieu let him embrace him and eagerly returned the kiss he pressed to his lips. It appeared Treville's anger had already dissipated.

"Do you know, for a while I suspected she might have been the one to poison you."

"She didn't," Richelieu replied, making sure to meet Treville's gaze. 

"Good."

Richelieu prayed Treville truly believed him. The Lord knew he did not deserve much trust from him on that subject. 

But now that the equally intriguing subject of Milady had been raised he could not let it drop. After all, there was the still the mystery of Marmion to solve. 

"But you talked to her?" he asked. "You questioned her when it was all over? About the observatory?"

Again, Treville wrinkled his brow at him.

"Why would I? She talked to us freely enough when she came to fetch us. Athos took some convincing before he believed her that the king was in danger." Treville furled his brow. "You really don't know? She escaped Marmion through sheer luck and came to the garrison for help."

"She fetched you? You mean the regiment?"

"No." Treville's cheeks flushed and Richelieu was not entirely sure whether it was from embarrassment, or, God forbid, pleasure.

"It was just Athos, Milady and me."

Richelieu took a step back to look him over, and looked him in the eye: "Alone? Were you hurt?" He was aware that he sounded more alarmed than he had intended, but being confined to the chateau and condemned to rely on third parties for any news about king and capitol was torture enough. To be confined while Treville threw all reason and caution to the wind by taking risks like this was unacceptable.

"I'm fine," Treville said, but his gaze remained hard. "I can't say as much of the people we rescued."

Richelieu felt himself choke. 

"But the king…?"

The footmen had spoken at length about the murdered courtiers, but it had been no use trying to worm details they did not have out of them about what had been done to survivors.

"You better sit down."

As Treville talked Richelieu sat in the uncomfortable chair, listening, never interrupting, and the crease on his brow grew ever deeper. By the time Treville finished, Richelieu found it was he who had no words left.

"Armand?"

Richelieu bowed his head, burying his face in his hands. 

Treville crouched down beside him.

"You truly didn't know any of this? About the town?" 

"No!" Richelieu lifted his face out of his hands and the agony was visible in his expression. 

"But you said you were going to look into Marmion."

"We did! There was nothing to find out about him in Paris. The man we sent to Gerberoy never reported back."

Treville looked him over with a frown on his face.

"That didn't strike you as odd?"

"I didn't know he'd disappear. How could I? Everything was fine at first." 

Maybe he should have foreseen trouble. Maybe he should have made sure Passerat did not go to Gerberoy alone or at least did not stay there alone. Maybe he should have sent Cahusac with a full dozen guards after him sooner.

Maybe he should have halted his operations against his poisoner to focus on Marmion instead.

But how could he have known that a little, insignificant astronomer actually warranted the attention of the entire web of agents he had spun to catch what he thought of as much bigger flies? He should not have had to. Simple as that. The king had multiple guard regiments to watch over him, one of those formerly Richelieu's own. Louis should not have to depend on his old advisor – his old, _dead_ advisor – to protect him from the shadows. So _why did he_ have to?

"What did Rochefort do during all of this?"

"According to Porthos, dislocate joints."

Richelieu stared at him.

"Marmion locked them both away. In their attempt to escape Porthos was injured. But they didn't manage to free themselves until we arrived."

"So Rochefort did nothing?"

Treville looked up at him from where he was crouching next to his chair. "He shot Marmion after his associates had all either fled or were killed. But, yes, apart from slaying the villain he did nothing."

The tone of voice in which Treville delivered his reply worried Richelieu.

"So this one is entirely Rochefort's fault? Your musketeers actually saved the day? But for some reason you don't appear to be celebrating." 

Treville averted his gaze. 

"The king didn't agree?"

"Rochefort was the one to actually kill Marmion so he ended up the hero of the hour." Treville attempted a smile but it froze halfway across his cheeks. "Again."

Richelieu frowned in heartfelt disgust. "It's easy to escape your own faults when people want to see you as their shining knight."

A thoughtful look appeared on Treville's face. "You don't think." He indicated them both. "He and Louis…"

"Are having an affair?" He stared at his musketeer wide-eyed. "Heaven forbid!" He actually raised a hand to his heart when the thought manifested into a mental tableu. 

They had both had their suspicions about Louis in the past, but "no," he said. "No. Even to secure his position at Court Rochefort would never…" The words _sleep with the king_ were so monstrous that they stuck in throat. How were they ever to be rid of him if he indulged Louis in that way? _But…_

"But," he concluded, "if Louis were in love with him it would explain his unnaturally quick rise." _Even without taking into account the musketeers' recent blunders_ , was what he refrained from adding.

"Still, I think it's due to Rochefort always having been good at giving people just what they wanted and telling them what they wanted to hear. It's why he used to be so useful to me, once."

Treville did not look entirely happy with his answer, which brought Richelieu back to what they had been discussing before this interlude of nightmarish insinuations. 

"And you? What fault did Louis manage to find with his loyal musketeers?"

Treville did not respond. He returned to examine the texture of the dark wood that made up Richelieu's chair, visible through the old coat of varnish. 

"Jean." Touching the fingers of one hand to Treville's chin he made him turn his head and meet his gaze. The defeat he saw in Treville's eyes made his heart sigh in sympathy. 

"The king didn't say anything. He wouldn't even look at me."

Richelieu reached out to brush his cheek and Treville rested his head atop the cardinal's knees. 

"I should have taken that seat on the council," the musketeer said, his voice low and rough.

A month ago Richelieu would have been the first to protest, but by now he had to agree. 

"So you should have." 

If Treville had hoped to be contradicted he did not show it. In fact, he did not show much of a reaction at all. 

Richelieu stroked his ear, while at the same time concentrating on preventing his heart from ripping a hole through his chest to escape the sorry scene that presented itself to his eyes.

"So you're going to sit on the floor for the rest of the evening?" 

Treville grunted in reply. 

"That's a yes?"

Treville turned his head so that it was his cheek resting on Richelieu's thighs instead of his chin, and met his gaze again. 

"I remember what you said about how the king is going to restore my commission once he feels I've been punished enough. I just don't see it happen right now." His impassive expression had been replaced by a new frown. "Not in my lifetime."

Richelieu exhaled noisily and, standing up without warning, forced Treville to pull back, making him fall on his behind on the floor. Offering both his hands Richelieu pulled him onto his feet. 

"Louis," he said, before Treville could begin to protest, "does not want you to leave." 

"He certainly doesn't act like it. But you have to know. You haven't seen him in months, but apparently you still know better."

"When did I turn into the naïve and trusting half of this relationship? I thought I was the cruel, sarcastic one?"

"No, you're the one who thinks he knows everything and won't admit when he's wrong."

Richelieu sent him a half-lidded look of annoyance.

"And you're the one who is going to sleep on the floor because he prefers being contrarian."

Treville grunted at him again but did not answer back.

Taking him by the shoulders for emphasis Richelieu added, "I'm not being nice, I'm telling you the truth. How many weeks has it been now? And still he hasn't found a replacement? Is that likely?" 

Treville said nothing. 

"You know Louis likes to play mortally offended. Because it makes the forgiving all the sweeter later." 

"He won't even acknowledge I exist!"

It could have been said that Louis was a king and as such did not have to acknowledge anyone. But of course that was not the whole of it. Louis and Treville had been friends before. 

"Of course, he won't acknowledge you in front of everyone."

"And why is that?"

"If he did, he'd have to acknowledge you're still around pretending to be a musketeer." 

Treville blinked at him in barely concealed confusion. So Richelieu continued. 

"In case you hadn't noticed, not only are you no longer captain of the musketeers, you don't have any kind of commission." He paused to let that sink in. "You're no musketeer at all." Going by the way the colour drained from his face it appeared that Treville hadn't given much thought to the wider implications of the matter.

Richelieu tightened his grip on his lover, prepared to guide him to a chair if he had to, but Treville gently brushed off his hands a moment later, signalling that he was alright. 

"So, should I have left?"

"Clearly Louis doesn't want that to happen. Because then he'd actually have to find a replacement, while now he has you run the garrison merely without the title and without having to cement your demotion by offering you a commission as a regular musketeer."

Treville rubbed the back of his head raising an incredulous eyebrow at the cardinal.

"You give him that much credit?"

"And you so little?"

"It's you who complains that he never thinks ahead!" 

Treville had a point. Richelieu had to admit that it was hard to remember from time to time that Louis did, in fact, possess a brain that he used for thinking on a regular basis.

"In politics, yes. But this is a personal matter. And the musketeers are his passion project. Just give it time. He does love you, even while he's angry at you."

"You're so sure of that." Treville, meanwhile, did sound anything but sure, and in that moment Richelieu felt their continued separation stronger than he ever had before. 

"You don't have a taste for these games, I know." 

"No. And neither do my musketeers. The situation is," he paused, struggling for the right expression, "needlessly confusing." 

Richelieu was convinced the word he looked for had been more akin to _unsettling_. From what his spies told him the musketeers were acutely aware of the anger, hurt and frustration their leader felt about his demotion.

"Louis should have chosen a different way to punish me and appease the Spanish. It's convenient to him, but it's not fair to the men." 

Richelieu nodded. Louis enjoyed being a king, but not so much being a ruler. Undoing all the convenient solutions Louis had taken since he left was going to keep Richelieu busy for years to come once he returned to Paris.

"They still follow me," Treville continued, "but it's strange to them. They love their king but at the same time they resent his decision. They expect a replacement eventually, but they don't know how they should react in regards to me when that happens."

"Do you still think you should leave?" Richelieu doubted that it was concern about ruining the king's convenient solution that kept the former captain from making a decision. 

Treville smiled a bitter smile. "What do you think?"

Richelieu was taken aback for a moment. He couldn't expect the cardinal to make this decision for him. The musketeers were Treville's life. 

"Well," he hesitated. But the earnest look on Treville's face told him that he was serious. "We already established you're no longer a musketeer." He paused as he watched Treville's gaze harden. "You know I consider them overly expensive. They're too full of themselves, prone to provoke duels – which is illegal, as I don't need to remind you." He was stalling, he knew. "As you pointed out yourself, your dismissal upset them and your current status confuses them. And if Rochefort," Treville winced at the mention of the comte, "or anybody else, forces the issue and the king appoints a new captain while you are still around there will be a risk of mutiny."

Richelieu looked into the distance as if weighing his thoughts.

"All things considered, you should retire and let the king reap what he sowed. Let him and Rochefort sort it out. Sooner or later Louis is going to beg you to come back."

"Well, I'm not doing it." Treville's response was immediate. "Rochefort proved he can't even handle the Red Guard. I'm not leaving my king's protection to him, and I'm not leaving my musketeers." 

Not able to suppress the grin that threatened to spread over his face completely Richelieu smiled. "Despite Louis? Or are you going to stop worrying over his opinion?"

Trweville growled. 

"I didn't accept my commission back then just to hear the king praise me and I'm not starting now." He breathed in deeply. "But even a loyal dog will feel a kick."

"In that case I will stop hounding you."

Treville let out a sigh that spoke of the world that rested on his shoulders and turned his clear blue gaze back onto Richelieu: 

"What are you doing about this man who went missing?"

"We sent Cahusac after him with a couple of men, but we didn't consider him missing until he actually failed to deliver any results by today. So I'm not expecting to hear anything from that direction for a couple of days, unless it turns out Passerat was on his way back and shows up on our doorstep within the next couple of hours."

"And you don't believe that's likely, of course?"

"Of course."

"So what do we do until then?"

"Wait."

"For what? For Cahusac to come back? For days?"

"For whatever happens next."

How little Treville liked this answer was evident by the look on his face. Richelieu could not hold it against him. 

The cardinal took his hands once more. 

"Marmion and Passerat aren't my only concerns, remember?" 

"Of course." 

"Care to wait with me a while?"

Smiling, Treville let himself be led to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this is something of a spy story I could not resist giving someone a fancy nickname. Mea culpa. Anyway, my apologies for being a slow writer, but more plotty bits are going to arrive soon. Also, thank God for subtitles! I never quite could make out the name of Marmion's hometown before.


	4. Vices: Sloth

They began their evening in the east wing's salon by having a glass of wine from a vineyard owned by Richelieu's family, while waiting for dinner to be prepared. It soon became apparent that apart from the family connection the wine had nothing much to recommend it. Following the awkward silence after the first sip Richelieu apologised to Treville for his brother's bad taste, but the latter was too busy amusing himself at the thought of the mighty Richelieu family's failed wine business to mind. However, it did not amuse him enough to try a second glass. 

While Richelieu was pleased to see Treville occupied with mirthful thoughts for once he made a mental note never to order wine from that particular cousin, single year's bad vintage or not. Life was already filled with enough hardship and misery to risk one's taste buds for the sake of nepotism.

At least dinner proved more to the musketeer's taste. Richelieu's private cook must have been overjoyed at the opportunity to cook for the cardinal's guest and it showed in the inventiveness the menu displayed that would have been wasted on the cardinal alone.

Richelieu was aware of his faults in this regard: he was a picky eater who preferred to eat alone, but insisted on taking his own cook anywhere he went. This cook was sad creature whenever there were no guests to entertain, as the cardinal did not care much about variety in his fare. Treville knew of this, and in a different life he might have laughed at the cardinal's paranoia, but as it was the musketeer had simply accepted that Richelieu would barely touch his food particularly when he was not in his own home, and even more so when in large company. Even at Royal feasts. 

But since Richelieu had let it be known that he would be dining with Treville his cook had taken advantage of the larder Alphonse kept stocked for the guests he regularly entertained now that he was actually back in residence at the chateau. With all of Alphonse's culinary riches the cook had let his imagination run wild. 

Richelieu stared in despair at some of the dishes. He would have been happier with a plate of cheese and soft white bread, but Treville appeared to be enjoying the fried seafood, snails in a creamy wine sauce and the tiny, iced lemon tarts. 

From the experience gained during the few years he had spent as a military cadet, before Alphonse's flight into a monastery had led him to take up theological studies, and from the few campaigns he had led in the field during which he had been forced to share soldiers' rations when the supply train had been delayed, Richelieu had expected that taste was one of the first senses that dulled from soldiering. But maybe that was _why_ Treville was tucking in as heartily as he did. To a point of distraction, in fact, that only had him respond sparingly to the light conversation Richelieu attempted to keep up. Meanwhile the cardinal pushed a couple of shrimps cooked in their shell across his plate that were staring at him accusingly out of beady, black eyes. 

Still, the cardinal felt tempted to thank the cook personally for the contented sigh that escaped Treville at the sight of the stuffed mushrooms that followed on the seafood. He decided against it almost immediately, lest the cook felt encouraged to experiment when Richelieu ate alone.

After dinner they made a short tour of the gardens and the rooms that had been put at Richelieu's disposal, ending up in the small library. It was mainly stocked with theological texts, the majority of which were written in Latin and as such of no interest to Treville. Instead the musketeer showed some curiosity about the few maps kept in the library, especially in a set of beautifully detailed maps of Picardy, that Treville eventually noted were wholly inaccurate. Richelieu remarked that if ever a noble who annoyed him felt swept up by wanderlust he now knew what to gift them. 

But then, they had not come here to read. Richelieu had sent a servant to fetch more wine – expressively forbidding him to fetch a bottle out of the same crate as before dinner – and was now, as he drank, watching Treville pointing out the flaws in a coastline richly adorned with colourfully inked sea monsters. His eyes were shining and for the moment Richelieu was wholly content to listen to Treville complain about all the mishaps that had befallen him in his long career due to maps that resembled pieces of decoration more than tools. 

Even before he had lost his captaincy their latest meetings had had an air of gloom about them. First, de Foix had died. Then there had been the king's kidnapping. Richelieu had originally intended to send Treville another invitation via coach that week, but had abandoned these plans once his agents had finally unravelled what had happened during that incident. It had been another two weeks until Richelieu had managed to refer to the musketeers in any form of civilised manner. 

After that had followed Alaman and the white gun powder. The mad visionary. Perales. All in all, there was barely a meeting that had not found them arguing at some point. Simply being able to have Treville around him discussing the quality of innocent things like seafood, wine and maps rather than dead Spaniards, Rochefort and the king was refreshing. 

In the face of their earlier bad luck Richelieu was determined to appreciate what gift he had been bestowed upon him despite the worrisome incident that had led Treville here. So instead of worrying about kings and comtes he drank in the sight of Treville being passionate about maps in the warm light of the lamps that illuminated the library in their soft, orange glow. His blue cloak had long been abandoned leaving him standing before the cardinal in his open jacket and a linen shirt unlaced at the collar. Richelieu's gaze kept wandering to the thusly exposed skin that glowed in the lamplight. He breathed in deeply at the sight, unable not to take it as an invitation to slip a hand beneath the white linen. To run a palm over the muscles of Treville's chest. To run his fingers through the greying hair there, teasing him until Treville took hold of him and pressed him against the table. He would lift him on top of the maps that were so beautiful yet impractical as every frivolous thing... 

"Armand?"

Richelieu realised that he had stopped listening a long time ago. When he raised his gaze from the inviting skin of his neck to his face Treville was able to read a whole tale in his eyes. A smile spread from the musketeer's closed lips under sparkling, half-lidded eyes. There was a distinct challenge in his expression.

And Richelieu was not one to back down.

* * *

Morning found them both in a reading room, half-dressed and curled awkwardly atop a chaise longue that had never been meant to be used in this way. But at least they had managed not only to find a room with a lock but also a piece of furniture that resembled a bed rather more than the map table - once they had both agreed that what they were up to was no way to treat a library. 

As Richelieu blinked away the sleep he was relieved to find them covered with Treville's blue cloak, meaning they had not forgotten to take their clothes with them. Anything could be explained away under his brother's roof, but the less evidence left behind the better. 

Maybe it was the fact that he had just woken up, but the thought depressed him. Sighing in defeat he threw his head back, hitting Treville in the shoulder. The soldier immediately awoke with a grunt, sitting up; an action that almost resulted in sending Richelieu to the floor. But Treville prevented it by grabbing hold of him. 

"A good morning to you, too."

Richelieu cursed silently. He would have preferred to let Treville sleep. Even on the occasions that Richelieu convinced him to stay the night he never stayed long, anxious to return to Paris, the king, the musketeers, and, by necessity, Rochefort and his schemes. Considering all the trouble each of those was invariably causing without cease Richelieu did not blame him. In fact, he understood the urge all too well. 

The thought of all that passed by while he was away made his stomach turn. 

Neither of them was comfortable leaving the action to other people. It was a trait that made them butt heads as much as they admired it in the other. But in this case it also meant there was nothing Richelieu could possibly do to prevent Treville from returning to Paris and making himself miserable again. 

For the way things were going Louis' attitude to his former captain was not going to change anytime soon, and while there was a chance that Rochefort would ease up on Treville now that he was no longer vying with him for the king's affection Richelieu did not count on it. Especially not if the Comte was still intent on discrediting the musketeers to further secure his own position and that of the Red Guards as the chief guard regiment. 

Richelieu could not help but groan at the irony of the latter. Under different circumstances he might have thanked the man for it, but not when the humbling of the musketeers came at the price of Treville suffering. He had little hope that things would be looking up for his lover by the next time they met.

But whatever happened, Richelieu would do what he could to put him back together again. It was not like he was allowed to do much else by himself these days.

"My apologies," he said eventually, "the furniture wasn't made for this." 

He allowed himself a moment of rest, breathing in the familiar fragrance of his lover's skin, before he got up. As he straightened himself his back immediately began protesting either the treatment it received last night, the unusual sleeping arrangements, or both. 

"And neither was I."

But still he bent down slightly to help Treville up and the musketeer took their proximity as an opportunity to bite and kiss the cardinal's ear. As Treville rose to his feet the blue cloak finally slipped to the floor and Richelieu wondered if he would ever grow tired of the sight of him; if it was even possible.

Treville agreed to stay for breakfast, once again to the cook's delight, which in turn meant breakfast turned out much grander and took much longer than usual, but, again, for once Richelieu did not mind. 

He was serving Treville by himself, having banned all servants from the room. Neglecting his own plate he was happy to watch the musketeer treat himself to capon bullion, cake and honey – not the least because Richelieu suspected that Treville's melancholy kept him from indulging himself near as much back in Paris. 

Additionally, the sight of Treville licking honey from his fingers was the perfect antidote to Richelieu's rising brooding mood. 

On the way to the dining room they had run into the cardinal's other secretary, Le Masle, who had announced that letters from Monsieur Montpellier had arrived. The man happened to be Richelieu's chief spy at Prince Gaston's Court and the encounter reminded Richelieu how anxious he was to put the incident at the observatory behind him in order to be able to focus his attention on the affair of the poisoner.

Even though Treville did not know in which capacity the Comte served the cardinal he knew that Montpellier was one of Monsieur's followers and as soon as they had sat down for breakfast Treville had commented that Richelieu apparently kept a close eye on Monsieur's Court as well as his brother's. So in addition to filling Treville's plate Richelieu had taken the opportunity to bridge the voracious silence at the table by bemoaning the slow progress his operatives made at both Courts. It was all due to the French nobility being made up of obstructive idiots caring for nothing other than their own goals. And Gaston, the king's ever jealous brother, was only the worst of them.

When he began to recount the contents of Montpellier's last letter Treville surprised him between two mouthfuls: 

"From the way you describe the Court he keeps the prince sounds more like a criminal than a rebel with a grudge."

Unable to help the slight widening of his eyes Richelieu suppressed a groan: When confronted with silence and an eager listener a man with something to say will talk. The cardinal blamed part of his energy and subsequent talkativeness on the former captain's honey-coated tongue, but it did not change the fact he had to be more careful from hereon, or Treville would be able to put the pieces together simply by listening to him complain. 

He had hardly time to settle on a new subject when they were interrupted by a knock at the door. Richelieu could not help but tense as the guard who entered bent down to whisper in his ear. They would not disturb him here unless it was important. 

"What is it?" Treville asked as soon as the door closed behind the guard and Richelieu cursed the frown the interruption had caused to spread over his companion's face.

"I asked Boileau to come here yesterday. He's finally arrived, along with another of my agents who knew the missing man well."

"If you'd prefer to go to them now—"

"No," he said, perhaps with a little more force than necessary. The morning had been so enjoyable. Taking a breath he continued: "What I have to discuss with them will keep half an hour." 

With a sigh Treville turned his attention back to his plate, but then he froze, a thoughtful look appearing on his face.

It was Richelieu's turn to ask to be included in his partner's thoughts:

"Something I ought to know?" 

Treville made a face as if he had bit on something sour. "A while ago I asked Athos to keep an eye on Boileau whenever he was at the palace in case I needed him to contact you."

Richelieu pushed away his plate, intrigued where this was going. Yet, he simply could not resist commenting: "Considering how you eventually resolved to essentially kidnap him to make him take you here I'm surprised at your initial attempts at subtlety."

Treville sent him a look, but continued: 

"My musketeers also keep an eye on Milady." 

Richelieu could feel his skin start to prickle. 

"One of the reasons I assumed she was still working for you was because Athos told me she had been seen with your man lately; taking walks together in the palace garden."

"Milady and Boileau?" 

_Interesting._

"I didn't think of it before, because Boileau is one of yours and I assumed she was working for you…"

He let the implication hang in the room, its meaning clear. Richelieu took a moment to let it sink in.

"Since you're uncharacteristically silent," Treville said, "I take it Boileau isn't taking walks with her on your orders?"

"No. He isn't."

The nagging feeling returned to the back of his mind that had appeared when he had first heard about the attempt on the king's life and had not been able to banish since. The suspicion he had refrained from voicing for fear of making it reality.

"You said Boileau was one of the men you had investigate Marmion."

It was not a question but Richelieu still nodded. 

It was time to treat the nagging suspicions no longer as suspicions but as a fact:

There might be all kinds of innocent reasons for Boileau withholding his meetings with Milady from the cardinal, but neither it nor Marmion's surprising past had been the first instance of information reaching them too late, or not at all. 

As he looked into Treville's darkening face he was reminded of the white gunpowder that Alaman had brought to Paris.

The whole affair had been a disaster. They had not even known the general was in France, let alone in Paris. Let alone close enough to hold a knife to his lover's throat. The latter they had learned from a still active Red Guard who was an acquaintance of one of Cahusac's men and who had overheard a bunch of musketeers giving room to their drunken indignation a little too loudly in a tavern. 

To say that Richelieu had been furious would be an understatement. Before Charpentier had managed to stop him railing about their incompetence and crying treason, he had been on the verge of ordering Cahusac and his guards to get Treville to the safety of the chateau and if they had to force him into that coach. 

Of course he had meant none of his ranting. Being locked up in this chateau that grew uglier every day magnified his equally locked up, ugly emotions from time to time. But even back then they had not been able to find a fault in their net of informants. 

He refused to believe it was love and worry that had clouded his mind so much that he had not investigated thoroughly enough and overlooked a clue that would have revealed a hole in his net. He was a human being with needs and faults, true. And the combination of being locked up with his frustrations and the probability of an undesirable fate befalling Treville led him to lose his focus. But this was the reason he did not work alone. Yet, his network; Cahusac, Charpentier – no one had noticed anything amiss. 

But now that it had happened again it was harder to think of it as an innocent, isolated incident. With Marmion, again, they had received their information just a tiny fraction too late to be able to actually do something about it. 

Again, no one, from their contacts and courtiers, their informants and agents, up to the top of the chain, no one had suspected anything. Somehow all the relevant information had slipped through all possible cracks. Or maybe just one vital piece of information had not been relayed to the one person at the next link of the chain that would have made sense of it, and connected it to the right piece of other information. 

As a man of faith Richelieu did not believe in coincidence. There remained only one explanation. 

"I'm sorry," Treville said. From his prompting it was clear that he had come to the same conclusion. But Richelieu waved his apology aside. What a ridiculous thing to apologise for.

"No, you're right," he said.

A part of their net had been cut, the chain broken. 

"We have a traitor."

* * *

"I see you finally made it, Antoine."

"Your Eminence!" Boileau bowed his head slightly as he entered. They were alone in the study that presently served as Richelieu's office. Richelieu did not get up from where he was seated at his desk to greet him. "Forgive me, the chancellor kept me past nightfall. There was no way for me to make the journey last night."

Despite protestations from Treville he had decided to see Boileau immediately after all. Treville had insisted he wait a bit to shake the shock out of his bones before he confronted the young nobleman. But there was no way they could have continued their breakfast in peace and Richelieu trusted in his ability to keep a cool and calm demeanour. 

Still, it was not every day that he confronted a spy who had possibly betrayed him with information that potentially made the other party wish to see him dead. But Boileau's appearance did its best to reduce such dark thoughts to absurdity. The young man, only twenty-three, with the romantically wavy chestnut hair appeared unguarded, his smooth, white face showing no concern for anything but his tardiness. 

Yet, this man, this boy, had lied to Richelieu by omission.

"Don't trouble yourself." Richelieu smiled at him. "If the chancellor ever stopped talking he'd burst."

Boileau nodded to himself in response and visibly relaxed his stance. 

Richelieu chose that moment to wipe the smile off his face and turn serious. "What I want to know is whether you have any news regarding Marmion or Passerat."

"Marmion, no. But I intend to speak to Lady Marguerite tonight." 

Richelieu acknowledged the statement with a nod of his own. After what Treville had told him, hearing Marguerite's version of the story was no longer a priority, but he was interested in finding out what Boileau would elect to share with him if he let him continue his investigation.

"Good. What about Passerat?"

"I was going to discuss the matter with Fauchet since he knows him best. But when I intended to call on him I was informed our Vicomte was preparing to head out of the city. When he learned it was me who called he asked me to accompany him, since he was heading out here."

"So, altogether you have nothing to tell me?"

Richelieu had to commend the young man's control of his body language in this instance. He hardly noticed him swallow.

"No," he said, without a change in tone. "Surely if I had a little more time, but you asked me to come here as soon as possible."

The smile returned to Richelieu's features. He was not interested in hearing his excuses. Not for this.

"So tell me about Milady instead."

Boileau blinked once, which under different circumstances could have been read as honest confusion. 

"What about her?"

"You know in what capacity she served me, and you know about the circumstances under which she left my services."

"Yes, I do." A crease appearing between the courtier's eyebrows accompanied his brief response.

"What I want to know," the cardinal responded slowly, as if savouring every word before speaking it, "is why you, knowing all this, saw fit to keep from us your recent rapport with her."

"Pardon?"

"You have been seen taking companionable strolls in the Royal garden with our mutual acquaintance."

Boileau's expression froze, but he did not hesitate defending himself:

"She's the king's mistress. Or at least she still was by the time I left Paris. I can't possibly expect to remain at Court if I slight her by ignoring her when she decides to talk to me."

 _Excellent response_ , Richelieu thought. _Very reasonable._

"What does she want to talk about to you so urgently?"

There flashed a momentary blankness through the young man's eyes, as if he was uncertain of what to reply, but eventually he settled on: "You."

"Me."

Richelieu raised his eyebrows in surprise. Not at the revelation that he was the subject of their conversations, but at this unabashed frankness.

"She knows I spied for you, and she knows I know she spied for you. What else would we talk about?"

"Go on."

"She's wants me to admit you're still alive."

"But naturally you denied these insane allegations."

"Naturally," Boileau replied, mien still frozen.

Richelieu remained silent and elected to study Boileau's face instead. It told him nothing. But then, as he had come to know, when confronted with silence a man with something to say will talk. As Boileau did now: 

"Your Eminence, You needn't concern yourself about her. I would never risk displeasing you or losing Claire over this."

The amiable smile never leaving his face, Richelieu leant forward.

"You'd lose more than Claire if you betrayed me. I pray you're aware of that."

Boileau did not move a muscle.

"Of course," he said and remained standing where he was, looking a bit too nonchalant for Richelieu's liking. 

"Keep walking with her, but from now on you include these discussions in your reports."

"Yes, Your Eminence," Boileau said, but not without some hesitation.

"Something else I need to know?"

"No, Your Eminence."

"Hm."

The cardinal finally stood up and walked a couple of paces away from his desk. He did not look at Boileau or anything in particular. He walked as if occupied by heavy thoughts.

"The reason I sent for you in person," he said, watching him out of the corner of his eye, "what I can't relay through any courier; is that I believe Passerat to be a traitor."

"A traitor?"

"He revealed himself when he failed to inform us about the astronomer's madness."

Boileau gaped at him. "What… why?" 

The cardinal's grey eyes flashed like storm clouds. "Perhaps your new friend knows something about that."

"Pardon?"

"Consider this a chance to make up for your negligence." He made sure to lock eyes with the young courtier who had paled visibly. "Your final chance, Boileau. Enquire about who knew where Passerat was going and who he met. This time when you run into one of my old employees leave nothing out."

With that he dismissed Boileau and returned to his desk. But when he looked up the nobleman lingered. Richelieu, seated once more, glared at him in undisguised annoyance that hid the tension that had taken hold of him. 

Treville had been less than pleased with him when he had insisted on confronting Boileau alone. He had only relented when Richelieu had explained to him that he did not intend to outright accuse Boileau of treachery, and that he was certain Boileau would prefer to leave the chateau alive - something which he was unlikely to do if he decided that now was the time to switch his particular mode of treachery from not reporting a conversation with Milady to murder.

But even the cardinal was wrong sometimes. 

Boileau took a step closer, an odd expression on his face, and Richelieu swallowed.

"What?"

"She doesn't believe me when I tell her you're dead."

"I wouldn't have expected her to."

They held each other's gaze for a breath before Boileau looked away. Having nothing to respond and realising he had outstayed his welcome the nobleman turned on his heel and walked out of the study.

Once Richelieu was alone again he waited for his heartbeat to settle. Charpentier entered from one of the secret doors across from the cardinal's desk that were hidden in the dark, ornately carved wall panelling. 

Even though Richelieu had known he was there the click of the lock made him want to reach for the pistol he kept in the drawer in front of him. 

"Did you hear all of that, Denis?"

"Loud and clear."

Richelieu steepled his hands in front of his chin, thinking. 

"Who do we have to keep an eye on Boileau and the king's mistress?" 

Charpentier only paused for a polite second before answering:

"May I recommend Fauchet for this kind of operation? Or Guyon, if you fear Fauchet is too busy with Rochefort." 

Richelieu made a thoughtful noise. 

Georges de Fauchet, married, with a young heir soon old enough to be introduced to Court, was from the sort of stock Richelieu traditionally avoided: Proper nobility of the sword, he had lost both his father and elder brother to the defence of the fatherland, leaving Georges the Vicomte de Fauchet and with something to prove. The father had fallen during the siege of Paris, fighting to take the city for the first Bourbon king against the Catholic League. The elder brother had given his life fighting the Huguenots at La Rochelle, for the long since converted king's Catholic son. 

Heroism such as this had made the family popular at Court. But the present Vicomte, which endeared him to Richelieu despite his roots, had elected to serve his king and the true religion in a different fashion: with a pen and a well placed word in the right ear here and there instead of the sword. Yet in all his endeavours he had proved no less earnest than his deceased relatives.

He made use of the riches and the splendour that were his birthright, but in a calculating fashion, in the same way that Richelieu would: he used his assets to dazzle at Court; to enter those circles of the nobility who were at the top of the game, but could still be tempted to invite the fox into the henhouse by mistaking him for a vain peacock.

There was a chance that Boileau would realise that he would be watched. He might even expect to be watched. Employing an agent Boileau knew of, like Fauchet, would heighten the risk, but then Richelieu was not entirely keen on avoiding it. Pressure could cause Boileau to make mistakes if there were any mistakes to be made. And the extra pressure a fox like Fauchet provided might just be what was needed.

Lastly, Rochefort was rarely away from Court. Whenever he left it was mainly to accompany the king on hunting trips or excursions into the lair of a mad astronomer. Therefore, watching out for Boileau and his encounters with Milady need not mean Fauchet would have to neglect his supervision of the Comte. 

If only it had not been Fauchet who had introduced Passerat who was now cause for so much concern Richelieu would not think twice about choosing him over Guyon. 

"I'm going to talk to Fauchet first, since he's already here. See that he's sent in."

* * *

Treville was waiting for him where he had left him in the dining hall. Richelieu could not help feel guilty when he noticed that he had abstained from continuing his breakfast without him, even though he could hardly be held responsible for every ill advised decision his musketeer chose to take. 

Even worse, when Richelieu entered Treville reached for his sword belt and cloak.

"You're leaving?" 

"I told my musketeers I expected to see them this afternoon. They'll wonder where I disappeared to if I stay any longer." 

His expression soured, but Richelieu was not going to play the spurned lover.

"You better hurry then. I'm shocked they can find their heads without you."

Treville smirked at him. "I'll make sure this time you won't have to try and cope without me as long."

He fastened his cloak around his shoulders, but made no move to actually leave while Richelieu sat down and glanced with disdain at the capon bullion that had gone cold awaiting the return of the cardinal and his appetite. 

"How did your audience go?"

Unlike Treville Richelieu had no trouble abandoning his meal in favour of conversation. He also intended to send the whole menu back and ask for some cheese as soon as Treville was out of the room.

"I talked to both of them and neither tried to murder me." 

"I'm glad you can joke about it."

And Richelieu was glad that apparently he did not sound as relieved about it as he felt. Then he remembered why he was stuck in this chateau and felt like a villain again.

"I'll have Boileau watched from now on," he said, attempting his best conciliatory tone. "By Fauchet."

Treville exhaled noisily, but he looked as happy as could be expected in the situation. 

"You think he's responsible for the observatory?" he asked, once again taking the seat opposite from Richelieu.

It was a question the cardinal had not decided on a satisfactory answer for. 

"Whether or not Boileau's reasons for keeping his conversations with Milady quiet were sinister, I'm not going to take any chances." 

"You don't sound very confident?"

"Passerat used to be a favourite of Fauchet's. He swears he'd never disappear voluntarily, but he's worried." 

"And you're concerned it's going to impact Fauchet's effectiveness?"

"Not entirely." He rubbed his brow. In fact, as they had talked Fauchet had been inconsolable. He had sworn to Passerat's good character despite his distress, but then the two of them had been close. If Fauchet had not attempted to come to his defence _then_ his reaction would have been worth talking about.

"But I can't wait for Cahusac to return with news." At this point he did not care whether they were good or bad. The mystery of the traitor and Passerat's disappearance was far more invigorating than any breakfast could have been. But it was also a more likely cause for a headache. 

"You don't trust him either?"

Richelieu almost said _I used to_ , but he caught himself when he realised how ridiculous it sounded. But then, the whole situation was ridiculous:

"I can't think of a reason why he would betray us, but then I couldn't come up with a reason for Boileau either."

And that was a problem.

Before he had gone to meet Boileau Treville had made him tell all he knew of the man. Of his wish to marry his great-niece that Boileau had carried even before his family had supported the liaison in order to secure investments in their property. Of Richelieu's interest in the region the family governed. Of the work Boileau had been doing for him for years without slipping up once. 

It did not make sense for the man to betray them, Treville had agreed. Nothing fit. Boileau needed the cardinal to return to Court as fast as possible to realise his own hopes and those of his families. Sabotaging the cardinal gained him nothing.

The question they needed to concern themselves with was who stood to gain the most from this betrayal? The answer would likely reveal the traitor.

Neither Boileau nor Fauchet fit the bill.

Additionally, the nature of the most recent betrayal rendered the whole thing even more absurd: Who stood to gain from an act as random as this attack on the king? Had Milady found a hold over Boileau and used it to plan her rescue of Louis in advance to make herself irreplaceable in his eyes? Yet, according to Treville's musketeers she only escaped through sheer luck. But then, if she had planned for an escape and rescue there was nothing to say any part of it had gone according to plan.

Even Milady made mistakes, as Richelieu knew all too well. If she did not she would still be working for him.

The same could be said for Rochefort, who had nearly gotten himself killed, but in the end had turned up being the one to gain the most from the incident. 

But assuming for a moment those two were truly the innocent victims they appeared to be, then who was left? Who but someone who truly intended for the king to die? In addition to being a traitor to Richelieu's cause was someone a foreign agent? A Spanish spy perhaps? 

For a while Richelieu had wondered whether Rochefort might be acting on behalf of Spain. He would not have been the first spy to end up turned in prison. Only the Comte's hand in Perales' death that he had at the very least carelessly enabled in order to set up Treville's fall had shaken this belief.

But would the Spanish so callously risk the lives of the queen and the dauphin who were the ones who could secure Spanish influence over the French throne once the king was out of the way? Or did King Philip care more about the anarchy and paralysing terror the loss of the Royal family would cause than he did about his blood relations? 

Or maybe whoever their traitor was had acted in the interest of someone who would gain more directly from the deaths of both the king and his infant heir. Someone like … no, if Richelieu's would-be assassin knew of his continued survival and had actively taken to disrupt his network, then why would he care to keep information about Marmion of all things hidden from Richelieu? Why, when there was not a single sign that even hinted at his trying to prevent the more direct actions the cardinal had set in motion against him and his allies? 

As far as the affair of the poisoner was concerned Richelieu was close to his goals now; and yet none of the people whose arrests he was busy setting up had made a move to side-step his traps. Either they were truly still as clueless as Richelieu had planned for them to be, or everyone involved was far more cold blooded than even the cardinal could imagine.

It was a sin to indulge in self-praise, but Richelieu considered the former far more likely. 

Yet, where all this speculation, all these hypotheses left him, was that he had no idea who was responsible for the incident at the observatory playing out as it did, apart from the fact that Passerat was likely involved somehow. 

"Let me know when you find your missing man." Treville speaking up tore Richelieu out of his ruminations. 

Treville rose to his feet and picked up his hat, finally preparing to leave.

"I can tell my musketeers to keep their eyes and ears open for him, if you pass me a description. If he shows up in Paris they'll find him."

"That won't be necessary." A couple of additional eyes and ears could prove helpful, but Richelieu was not convinced he wanted the musketeers involved. "How are you going to explain that you're looking for him?"

"If your Fauchet is so worried about his friend he can come to us for help."

Richelieu was still not convinced. "It might put your men in the sights of whoever caused Passerat to disappear."

Treville shrugged. "No more dangerous than any other snooping they've done in service of the king." He fixed Richelieu with his blue gaze and Richelieu remembered his resolve to remind Treville that he trusted him whenever possible. 

"They won't be storming anyone's attic," Treville added, "just keeping a lookout."

"I'll consider it."

Treville snorted, but his smile betrayed that it was an amused snort, not one of frustration. As Treville had pointed out some time before Richelieu did not like to admit when he was wrong, and the musketeer could see his vague concession for the approval it was. 

Taking his hat in hand he made for the door but stopped at the cardinal's side and Richelieu stood up to see him off. Treville cast a cursory look around the room, convincing himself that coast was clear before pulling the other man into a kiss.

Richelieu adored the feeling of the leather gloves on the bare skin of his neck. He tasted honey.

"Be careful, Armand."

"I will."

Richelieu would like to believe that for once he had only himself to worry about.

* * *

The next day the early morning courier brought the news that Milady had been exiled from Court and told to pack her things, potentially rendering both Boileau's and Fauchet's missions pointless.

The day after, Cahusac returned with all of his men alive and well, but without Passerat. His explanation turned out to be the obvious one:

"We found Passerat," Cahusac told Richelieu once they met in his office. "He's dead."


	5. Vices: Vanity

"Passerat is dead."

The news had not come unexpected to anybody present, but Richelieu would be lying if he had not hoped for a different result from Cahusac's excursion. Alive, Passerat would likely have been able to answer some of their questions – after some persuasion if necessary – but now they would have to make due with what his corpse could tell them and all the questions it raised rather than answered. 

"What are we waiting for? We should be looking for his killer."

Under the circumstances Richelieu was willing to overlook the accusatory tone Fauchet had elected to use – barely. 

"You will understand how that is somewhat complicated once you're in possession of all the facts."

Richelieu had invited Fauchet back to the chateau practically as soon as Cahusac had returned with the news. They had sent for him under the pretext of discussing what was to be done about Boileau now that Milady had been banished from Court. Of Passerat's fate the courtier had only learned once he had arrived. So far they had told him no details apart from the fact that Passerat had been killed on his journey back from Gerberoy. Jean would have called it cynical, but Richelieu had been interested in watching Fauchet's reaction to the news personally. Ruling out possibilities based on sentimentality was a certain way to lose your head in the type of game the cardinal played. 

To both his relief and curious disappointment Fauchet's reaction had not been out of the ordinary. He had looked stricken, taken in the news quietly and excused himself for a couple of minutes. Richelieu had granted him the request for privacy. No surprises there, Fauchet and Passerat had been friends. It was Fauchet who had supported his erstwhile bodyguard's talent as a writer, employing him as a private secretary for a while, before recommending him to the cardinal's service. They had known each other and worked together for a decade. 

Now Fauchet was back with them – with Richelieu, Cahusac and Charpentier – sitting in what the cardinal still thought of as only a temporary office in his brother's chateau's west wing. On being reproached by the cardinal the courtier put on a calm mien that was belied by how pale his face had grown since hearing the news. It was a stark contrast to his severely tied dark hair and the colourful riding ensemble he had put on to make his journey to the chateau. 

"You said he was killed," he said in a rather toneless voice. "So I must assume you have proof his death was no accident?"

Casuhac turned to answer him. "We found him just outside of l'Isle-Adam and took him to the coroner there, who found that his head had been bashed in."

"And he was on his way back you say?" Somehow Fauchet managed to pale even more around the nose. 

Passerat had almost made his way home.

"When we arrived at Gerberoy the people told us that a man of Passerat's description had indeed been there but left days ago. We managed to trace his journey all the way to l'Isle-Adam by stopping by at every inn along the road. It's why we took so long," the soldier said turning to the cardinal.

Richelieu bade him to continue with a look. He was not one to fault a man for thoroughness. 

"And he couldn't simply have fallen off his horse?"

Fauchet appeared to be having a stunningly hard time believing in murder.

"No. It's not a pretty thought, but it's the one thing the coroner was adamant about." Cahusac looked to Richelieu who again nodded for him to go ahead. "What's more, whatever Passerat found out in Gerberoy, whatever notes he took, whatever papers he had on him, they were all gone by the time we found him. As was his money."

"So it was robbers? Robbers randomly happened upon one of us and killed him?" Fauchet's cheeks were regaining some colour. Possibly from outrage. Here was a man whose closest male relatives had all gloriously died in battle for king and country, but for some reason death on a lonesome country road for much the same causes appeared harder to swallow. 

Charpentier spoke up for the first time, in his soft, cultured voice: "We considered that as well, at first, but considering the man Passerat was it seems quite unlikely."

Fauchet stared at him, scrunching up his face. "Pardon?"

"It might not be as obvious to you as you are – pardon me – were so used to his appearance, but think about it: How does one go about bashing in the head of someone like Passerat?"

"How?" Fauchet blinked at him before Richelieu saw the realisation dawn in his eyes – and with it a clear horror: 

Passerat had stood six feet tall and had been built like an ox. The only reason Richelieu would have ever, maybe, bet against him in a melee was if he fought the musketeer Porthos hand to hand. _Maybe._

"They didn't shoot him down first? Or wrestle him?"

"According to the mortician there were no other injuries on him." Cahusac paused. "At least none that stemmed from a fight with any certainty."

Fauchet drew his eyebrows together, looking no little confused: "What other injuries were there?"

"The mortician could not say how long he had been dead before we found him. The crows, well…" 

This time Cahusac looked to Fauchet as if to ask him for permission. As if Fauchet had much of a choice. 

"If you must be crude, be crude."

"It took us a while to figure out it was Passerat we had found when we did."

Fauchet looked to the floor, but Richelieu could still see him swallow. 

"So," he said, taking a deep breath. "Someone walked up to Passerat and knocked him on the head without a chance to defend himself?"

"It's the question that needs answering," confirmed Richelieu. "How do you knock someone like Passerat on the head?"

"Well. If you knocked him over first you wouldn't have to reach as high," suggested Cahusac. 

"But the mortician didn't find any sign of that, I thought?" countered Charpentier, while Fauchet was busy studying his boots. Richelieu was content just watching the exchange. 

"Right," said Cahusac, "but you don't have to fight a man to reach his head. What if he sat down with the killer, had a little drink and a chat at the roadside?" 

"He would never have done that." Fauchet did not look up as he spoke, but Richelieu could hear him swallow again. "He was on his way back to report. He wouldn't have stopped in the road to chat." He rested his face in his hands, still pale.

"Least of all with bandits," Cahusac agreed.

"Ah!" Charpentier made a noise as if he had reinvented the wheel, and a wholly inappropriate smile stole itself upon his face: "You don't sit in the road and have a chat with random strangers when the fate of the king depends on the speed of your horse. So, if we're assuming that's what happened, which admittedly sounds likely from what your mortician said, we must assume Passerat happened upon someone he knew and trusted."

"Georges," Richelieu called Fauchet out of his seeming shock by his given name. "You knew him best."

The nobleman put down his hands and straightened his back. Wearing a stony mien he came to attention. He pulled himself together in a fashion that Cahusac would have been proud to see in any of his guards.

"Is there anyone," the cardinal spoke slowly, "you can think of, who would have a reason to see him killed?" 

To Richelieu's dismay Fauchet shook his head. "Not since he came to work for me. He made a number of enemies in his mercenary days, of course, but none that I know by name."

Richelieu had to fight to keep a frown from his face. It could all have been so easy. A personal grudge would have meant the murder had nothing to do with them. 

"If you can't name anyone," Charpentier budded in, his tone as severe as his expression, "we must assume the killer was after Passerat's papers rather than after personal revenge."

Fauchet said nothing but shook his head again. 

"Someone," Cahusac summed up, "wanted to stop what Passerat had found out from reaching the cardinal."

"A traitor." Fauchet's voice was quiet, eerily befitting the magnitude of what had been said. 

"You probably figured by now the reason I asked you to keep an eye on Boileau was more complicated than safeguarding him and our operation against Milady?"

Fauchet stared at Richelieu with an expression that was unreadable apart for some confusion mixed into it. 

"Boileau killed Passerat?" Fauchet sharply sucked in his breath. 

"Not necessarily, but it's a possibility."

"The coroner could not tell when precisely Passerat had been killed, so it's impossible to tell if his murder coincides with any time Boileau had been absent from Paris." Cahusac sounded more annoyed with himself for this failure than with the coroner. 

But "L'Isle-Adam is only a couple of hours' ride away," Fauchet pointed out and the cardinal almost sighed. Because it was a good point, and one that complicated matters even further: Gerberoy itself was not that far away from Paris. Any of their agents stationed in the capitol could have managed to disappear down the road to l'Isle-Adam for a couple of hours waiting for Passerat to return without drawing much attention.

"So, we don't have any leads?"

Richelieu's eyes flashed. He could not help it. He kept an immobile face otherwise, but hearing it pointed out like that angered him, even though – no – because it was true. Boileau's suspicious behaviour was simply not enough to go on and they were still only beginning to investigate the murder alongside everything else they had on their plate since retreating to the chateau. 

Richelieu had almost hoped Fauchet would reveal himself as the culprit in a convenient fashion during their conversation. The cardinal needed to return his focus on arresting secretaries of state implicit in supporting Monsieur's fantasies of usurpation. Dead agents were a distraction he decidedly had no use or patience for.

"This must have been a lot to take in," he said, intent on breaking up the gathering. "For now we will assume Boileau had nothing to do with the murder of Passerat, but," he turned to Fauchet, "keep watching him. If you can do that without getting distracted by thoughts of revenge." 

"I can do my job," Fauchet responded, jaw set. 

"Good. If you happen to remember any names of the people Passerat made enemies of as a mercenary, let us know." 

Fauchet nodded and stood up, realising the meeting was at an end. 

They all shook his hand. When it was Richelieu's turn the cardinal locked eyes with his spy.

"Make sure you hold nothing back."

* * *

Circular thoughts of Passerat's murder occupied him over the following days and made the castle walls appear even closer: Had Passerat truly been murdered by their traitor? Had Passerat been the traitor and been killed by whoever he had betrayed the cardinal to? Had he been the traitor but had been murdered for reasons unrelated to his spying? Or perhaps he was innocent and his killing had been entirely accidental?

As a man of faith Richelieu did not believe in coincidence, but the thought would not leave him alone. Would it not be reassuring to find that everything that had gone wrong – Rochefort's liberation and unopposed rise to power, General Alaman showing up without warning, and Passerat being murdered while carrying vital information about Marmion – would it not be reassuring to find that all these things had been due to nothing more sinister than chance? 

Richelieu sighed at himself and his fancies in the dark of his study. Presently he was sitting at his desk, going through a stack of papers pretending to tidy them up. Charpentier and Le Masle had left him about half an hour ago after summing up the day's reports and since then Richelieu's thoughts had been wandering. Once again there was nothing much he could do except to wait for news and react to them. He knew things would change soon, that the days he had to spend stuck at the chateau finally were numbered. But at the present moment Richelieu could not deny that more often than not he was left restless with too little to occupy his mind except re-examining his plans and their recent setbacks in his head over and over. 

A man could not nourish his brain on plans of revenge alone. But ever since his brother had moved in a few weeks ago to entertain a string of guests even Richelieu's movements inside the chateau and its grounds were limited. Leaving for a ride to clear his mind was out of the question and the library in this place, which was not his brother's primary residence, was simply not very well stocked.

He would have invited Treville again, but the musketeers had been busy over the last week with the final preparations for Princess Louise's arrival. Even the word of Passerat's death he had to have delivered by a messenger. The fact that Treville had not taken the news as a cause to ride over showed how alert the city and the musketeers in particular must have been awaiting the princess' arrival. 

Considering how the reception of the princess had turned out Richelieu guessed that Treville would show up all on his own initiative sooner rather than later, demanding answers. 

Just what they needed: another mystery to solve. 

What had happened in Paris had kept Richelieu and his advisors busy since yesterday. On the fate of the real princess the cardinal did not dare dwell: Her Swedish marriage had been one of his last official proposals before he had been forced to disappear. He would have planned the festivities to entertain Her Highness during her stay himself. He would not have conducted the mess personally, most likely, but he would have written it. Yes, there would have been feasts to endure, but also at least one parade of the guard regiments. Treville, still captain, would have sported his most intricate ornamental breastplate, looking splendidly martial atop a black charger decked out in blue and silver.

Richelieu sighed. He had been thinking of Treville a lot lately and not just of his unenviable position. That should perhaps have told Richelieu something, but a clear idea of what that was simply did not make it to the forefront of his mind between thoughts of Passerat and now a murdered princess. 

The cardinal would have been there in person to tutor Louise on how to influence her future husband. The marriage would have served to bind Sweden against betraying the French cause in Germany. The Swedish already looked too hungry at the borders of France's Bavarian allies. Now it all lay in shambles thanks to what smelled of a pathetic bid for power from Rochefort. What a tragic waste of a powerful asset!

It was almost enough to make Richelieu reconsider his return to Court.

 _Minister_ Rochefort would soon find himself hard pressed to explain to an overwhelmingly Catholic public why France had supported the war in Germany once their erstwhile Swedish and protestant allies razed Munich and started plundering friendly, Catholic kingdoms. 

But the cardinal was too conscientious to watch France suffer for her first minister's mistakes, no matter how satisfying Rochefort's failure would look to him from a distance. No, it would be Richelieu who would have to explain himself if everything went according to plan. And he would not even have the luxury of pointing out that it had been Rochefort who had cut their leash on the Swedish for his own petty gains. For, in Richelieu's eyes, there were some things – a lot of things, really – the public was better off not knowing.

With a groan he noticed he had been arranging a particular stack of papers for the third time. He considered whether he should pick up a book after all, when someone knocked at the door. 

"Come in."

Cahusac entered and for a mad moment Richelieu considered asking him to join him for a game of chess just to clear his mind. But the thought fled as fast as it had formed, spurred on by Cahusac reporting that he brought news.

"Hm. The night courier isn't due for another hour at least, is she?"

Richelieu looked up just in time to see him swallow. 

"If you'd allow me to explain, Your Eminence."

There was a reluctant note in Cahusac's speech that created such a stark contrast to his usual monotone it made Richelieu carefully push away the papers in front of him in case he would be tempted to throw them off the desk in a moment.

Before he spoke Cahusac straightened his back as if bracing himself. 

"There has been an incident involving Monsieur de Treville."

The chair scraped over the floor with an obscenely loud noise as Richelieu jumped half out of his seat. "What," he paused for emphasis, crouching over the tabletop, "did you say?"

Cahusac did not even blink, did not move, hands at his side: the image of the obedient model soldier, here to serve.

"Before I continue," he said, "you need to be aware that all our sources indicate that he is going to make a full recovery and that any peril has passed."

"What peril?" Richelieu felt himself coil, as if he prepared to jump at his captain's throat.

Steady, steadfast Cahusac took a shaky breath as he deigned to cut to the point: "It appears that he has been shot."

"Shot! When? How?"

"Yesterday."

Richelieu could not believe his ears. For a second no words would form for him. 

"Why am I only hearing of this now?" He threw up his hands. "What in our Lord's name do I pay our agents for?"

Jean had been shot!

"Our agents are not at fault—"

"Then who?"

Cahusac kept a straight face, staring at a spot on the wall somewhere just right beside Richelieu's face in the timeless fashion of all soldiers faced with an irate superior exploding at them. 

"We received word as quickly as usual—"

"And you kept this from me!" Richelieu brought his hands back down onto the tabletop with a slap, making an inkpot jump. "What else are you keeping from me?"

"Please, Your Eminence! Nothing!" Cahusac's neutral mask broke as he pleaded. "You have my word!"

But Richelieu only pinched the bridge of his nose in a dramatic fashion: "How are we going to succeed in anything if I'm kept deaf and blind?" He lowered his hand to pierce Cahusac with a cold gaze: "Unless you don't want this operation to succeed."

Cahusac stared at him round-eyed, mouth slightly agape in shock. 

"Your brother," he said with and admirably strong voice as his face took on colour, "as well as Den– Monsieur Charpentier and I, we decided to postpone reporting to you until we were certain of Monsieur de Treville's fate."

Richelieu was about to lay into him again but the mention of his brother held him back. He loved Alphonse even though they had never shared the same connection he had had with Henri – may the Lord rest his soul – or even his sisters, but the elder Richelieu brother was also the only man in the whole wide world who could instil something like fearful respect into him. Less through his actual authority and more through his presumed madness, granted – but while Richelieu was grateful for the help he had been given in being allowed to use his brother's properties for his operations he still felt ill at ease around him. As had so often been the case in the past Richelieu was only comfortable fighting Alphonse or even ordering him about when he was in a different part of the country and all the fighting took place by letter.

He straightened himself and closed his eyes for a moment, calming his breathing.

_Jean…_

"Who did this?"

"You were already informed of the death of the princess and the Archbishop, as well as the further attempts on members of the Royal council. It appears the same people…"

Cahusac did not need to continue. 

Richelieu took a seat again, forgetting that his abrupt rising had displaced it, and cursed silently when he barely hit the chair as he sat down.

Cahusac looked as if he intended to come to his aid, but one glare from the cardinal held him back.

"How bad is it?"

"As I said, he is going to recover."

"How bad _is it_?"

"He was shot in the back, once. They retrieved the ball and there was some liquid to be drained from the lungs."

Richelieu rested an elbow on the tabletop, exhaling noisily, and ran a hand through his hair. 

"How is he now? Has anybody seen him?" By anybody, of course, he meant anybody working for him. 

Cahusac had to answer in the negative. He had resumed his previous collected appearance when he continued in a neutral tone: "The report we received earlier this evening indicates he's recovering. He's staying in his old quarters at the garrison"

"Please leave me."

Cahusac nodded stiffly and headed for the exit

Richelieu liked none of the reassurances he had been given

_What if Treville took an unpredicted turn for the worse? What if the wound putrefied?_

"Cahusac!" 

The soldier stopped in the doorframe. 

"I want the name of the doctor in charge and I want to know exactly what he's doing." 

Cahusac paused, thoughtful, probably taken aback by the cardinal's request. But, well disciplined as he was, he acknowledged promptly: "I'll see that the word gets out to our agents immediately."

Richelieu stood up to pace while he contemplated his next orders. "And I want to know who sees Treville and when." 

Cahusac nodded dutifully. The thin lines that showed on his brow remained unnoticed by Richelieu who did not even look at him as he paced.

"I need to know how well he is guarded, if there is a guard, God help them if there isn't. But knowing the musketeers they'll sit on that staircase in a pack until they rot."

Cahusac's raised eyebrow at the half-compliment-half-insult went unseen as well.

"Still there should be patterns we can exploit to schedule our visit. Not by daylight of course, and we'll need to put some work into a distraction." He stopped in his tracks for a moment. "We can make use of the Red Guard for that."

"Your Eminence," Cahusac finally managed to catch the cardinal's attention. Richelieu glared at him for interrupting. "Forgive me for being forward, but is this wise?"

Of course, Cahusac was not referring specifically to making use of the Red Guard. 

In response Richelieu drew himself up to his full height and looked the soldier in the eyes with a cool, grey gaze.

"Try to stop me."

Cahusac visibly had to control the muscles of his face, most likely in order to refrain from saying or doing something that might have been interpreted as insubordination. 

"May I remind Your Eminence of all the work that went into your relocation and allowing you to continue in your duties from here?" 

Richelieu continued to glare.

Cahusac did not even pause: "What about the personal sacrifices involved?" 

He might be referring to Passerat, he might be referring to Suzanne de Brèves. He had to be at least partially referring to the Red Guard that he once captained and that now had been turned over to Rochefort, but Richelieu had little time for sympathy. He turned to Cahusac with eyes flashing and teeth bared.

"Don't question me." Even though he refrained from shouting the cardinal's voice might have been made of steel. "You never should have kept this from me!"

But the former and present captain of his guard was not finished:

"So you're giving it all up." He swallowed around the shock. "All for—"

"Not another word if you're attached to your head."

Cahusac closed his mouth around anything else he might have said, looking crestfallen and red with shame and indignation. Richelieu continued to glower at him. 

"Leave now and do as I ordered and I might be inclined to forgive your lack of judgement. Or tell Biscarrat to await my orders instead."

Cahusac nodded wordlessly, flushing red to the ears, and then he left.

* * *

The rational part of him knew that Cahusac was right, that heading for Paris was the worst thing he could possibly do at this time. If any of his poisoner's allies spooked and fled Paris because they caught wind of the cardinal having survived, the vast majority of their work here would be for naught. Worse, giving the noblemen among their enemies a chance to hole up in their castles could lead to another civil war.

Yet, this rational voice in his mind sounded small and low opposed to the worry that rang shrill:

 _What if he dies? What if he dies and I'm stuck here, away from him?_

With a bitter taste on his tongue he recalled that he had left Treville to similar thoughts not so long ago. Only with Treville there was no chance that this was a game that would end in his resurrection. 

He buried his head in his hands with a groan, angry at himself, both for feeling this weakness, this inability to do what he needed, and for even having started this game that now kept him separated from this person he had come to care for such an inordinate amount.

This was not the first time that Treville had been wounded, but in all the years, through all their differences and disputes Richelieu had never had to stay away. Now Treville lay wounded, most likely in pain, maybe dying, and Richelieu was stuck, held back by chains of his own making. 

He swiped his hand across the smooth tabletop and sent paper and candlesticks flying in a satisfying clatter. 

He stood breathing heavily, and then sat in silence for a while.

It was no use. There was no reconciling his mind with his heart. Cahusac was right. He could not risk what he had set up here, and what his people had sacrificed so much for. The thought alone was shameful. Yet, at the same time his need to head to Paris and see Treville was physical. Knowing that he could not go made him sick. 

Why was it he who had to be sensible all the time?

All these years he had shouldered the responsibility of standing at the helm of the ship of state voluntarily. He had even been proud to do so. He had sacrificed his days, his nights and his health. He had sacrificed countless people from strangers to friends who had stood in the way of the advancement of Louis' reign. He had not been able to return home for his mother's funeral or that of his eldest brother, since at both times his king had needed him, even as Richelieu's private world had sunken into darkness. All this he had sacrificed without complaint. He could not afford to start complaining now. 

As he sank back into his chair, face in hands, he wondered why he had ever flirted with the idea that there was something – someone – he would be able to keep. 

Richelieu sat back up with a groan and stared at his cleared desk. Maybe, instead of complaining he should count his blessings instead. He had been fortunate to find and have Treville this late in life: Someone who put up with him despite their differences. Someone who stuck with him during their often animated rows. Someone he could count on to appeal to his humanity which so often had to be brushed aside when a situation called for a quick decision. It sounded silly, and Richelieu was loath to admit it, but Treville kept his precious soul safe – or at least from slipping from him entirely.

The bare bones of the matter were that Richelieu needed Treville. 

And more importantly Treville did not deserve to die as the ultimate victim of some backyard assassin.

How could anyone ask Richelieu to give up even one extra day he could spend with him?

But ask him they did: Louis, Paris, France. And if Richelieu did not answer; if Richelieu did not shoulder these responsibilities no matter the sacrifice, then who else would?

He sighed.

It all came down to the question which decision would allow him to face himself in the mirror the next day.

There was only one right thing to do—

A sharp rap on the wooden door almost made him jump out of his seat. 

"Your Eminence? The night courier has arrived."

Cahusac had returned. 

"Come in," Richelieu called and sat up straight in his chair, convinced that his face exuded a calmness he did not feel.

Cahusac entered, looking positively submissive. But Richelieu did not miss the soldier's eyes taking in the ruin of paperwork and writing utensils that piled on the floor as the result of his tantrum. Neither of them mentioned it. The captain knew the cardinal well enough to have guessed his mood even without the display. But whatever Cahusac thought of the matter, the important thing was that Richelieu was still here, still in his study, ready to continue their work for the good cause, instead of rushing to Paris, head over heels. 

"The night courier arrived, Your Eminence," Cahusac repeated, indicating the sheaf of papers he was holding. 

"Anything I need to take care of personally?" With no little frustration Richelieu noted that his voice sounded rather weak.

He almost sighed when he saw Cahusac wince at his choice of words. It was not like they had enough interesting surprises lately. Richelieu wondered if he had the energy left for one more. 

"It appears we have a lead on our leak."

Richelieu perked up. He wanted to believe that this could only be good news, but the way Cahusac delivered it filled him with apprehension. And what could be considered good news while Treville remained injured?

"Boileau sends word that he found someone who is willing to identify our traitor, but they want to meet you in person."

For a moment Richelieu was uncertain whether it was the world that was spinning around him, or whether it was all just in his head. 

"Who is this informant?"

"The note doesn't say. They've been to Court according to Boileau, but that's all."

"They can't come here."

Cahusac grimaced. "They apparently never suggested it. They want you to come to meet them in Paris."

Richelieu snorted. He felt tempted to laugh.

"And it was Boileau who found this person?"

"That's what's causing us pause as well." Cahusac's features took on a severe look. "If Boileau is a traitor and in league with this person…" He did not need to finish his sentence. 

"We could send a decoy." Someone else could go to Paris for him. Where Treville was.

"This person claims they know you and would recognise you by sight. And they claim they know you're alive."

"Hm." Richelieu rubbed his chin with one hand turned his gaze inwards for a moment. "And Boileau had nothing to say about who this person is? No description of any kind? Do they have evidence for their claims?"

"Not in the report. Shall I order Boileau to be more forthcoming in his next letter?"

Richelieu dismissed the suggestion with a lazy wave. "They can't believe we'd fall for this."

"That's not all." Cahusac pulled an envelope out of his sheaf of papers that sported a slight bulge. "They sent this."

He handed the envelope to Richelieu who peered inside, as it had already been cut open.

"Le Masle opened it. He and Charpentier think it's genuine."

Richelieu reached inside and his long fingers retrieved a small square box of lacquered wood. When he opened it its insides were lined with velvet on which nestled a stamp that bore a seal. 

"It's one of Rochefort's." He was unable to banish the astonishment entirely from his voice. 

It had clearly been intended as a mark of trust. But who did they know who could get close enough to the Comte to get their hands on one of his seals? Who was close enough to Rochefort and knew about _them_?

"So, the question is: how likely is it that Boileau is our traitor and is setting a trap before we can get rid of him?"

At the thought Cahusac wrinkled his nose.

"You'd expect the traitor would come up with a more plausible scenario to lure us."

"Is it so implausible?"

"Yes." Cahusac implored him with a look. "Pardon me, Your Eminence, but the lack of details about this supposed informant is suspicious."

Richelieu made a thoughtful noise. "Did Boileau write nothing else about this person? How did they know to approach him?"

"According to him they approached him at his private lodgings, no doubt to reduce the number of potential witnesses. He claims that they've been around at Court at one time, but that's all."

"Have been? But they don't have a name for him to give us? "

"If you'd like to read the report for yourself."

"I think I'll be doing that later, thank you, but if Boileau means to say that they are no longer part of the Court it could be their motive for telling on someone who still is." He paused. Whoever they were they had stolen for Richelieu from the newly minted minister and handed the cardinal a means to get out of Paris after nightfall should the need arise. At night the gates were only to be opened to travellers carrying special passes or decrees such as First Minister Rochefort might write, sign and seal in his new office. 

So, unless it was Rochefort himself who was involved in setting this trap…

"There's always a good reason to withhold names in a letter that might be intercepted."

Cahusac did not look convinced, but that did not stop him from keeping up: "I can get you a list of recent dismissals from Court by morning."

"No, no. I think we should make a decision now. I think we should meet this person as soon as possible."

Cahusac froze mid-motion. "Are you sure?"

Richelieu sent him a patronising look accompanied by a thin-lipped smile that clearly asked _when am I not?_

"Of course, pardon my insolence." Cahusac looked decidedly unhappy. "But you pay me in part to keep you alive and giving in to this stranger's demands seems contrarian to my duties and my further employment prospects."

"That's why you won't leave my side once we're in Paris." Richelieu deliberately paused and sought the soldier's eyes. "Can you honestly say we can afford not to take a chance on this informant?" This time it was Richelieu's turn to try and get personal. "Think of what this traitor has already cost us." 

Suzanne de Brèves for one. And Passerat. 

_And Jean?_

Cahusac did not respond, and Richelieu was certain he wanted to smoke out their traitor as much as he did. 

"Where does this stranger want to meet exactly?"

"They've left the choosing of the actual meeting place to our discretion as long as it is in Paris."

Richelieu leant back and regarded the captain of his guard over the tips of his steepled fingers. His brow was deeply lined in thought. Then he made a decision: 

"Send word to Boileau that I want to meet his source the day after tomorrow, at the old fencing school behind the Church of St. Sauveur at dusk. And I need their answer until tomorrow afternoon."

Cahusac nodded, but then frowned. 

"Is something the matter, Captain?"

"Only that we'll have little time to plan our move."

The thin-lipped smile returned to the cardinal's face. "But so will they." And Richelieu had a head-start.

He stared at the polished surface of his desk, calling up a map of Paris in his mind. "I want the guards at the Porte de Montmartre bribed to avoid questions. You will tell them you are the bodyguard of a nobleman who can't be seen entering Paris as he is visiting his mistress – an unfortunate woman who is about to be married off. Our romancing hero wishes to avert alerting her family to his presence."

Cahusac nodded again, memorising the order. But Richelieu immediately corrected himself: 

"No, see that the guards at both Montmartre _and_ the Porte de Saint-Denis are bribed." 

If they were betrayed by Boileau, or whoever he wanted them to meet, their enemies would be watching the gate at Montmartre closer as it was the more direct route, so bribing these guards as well could prove a helpful little deceit. Richelieu and his guards would have to travel a good while longer through the city to reach the school by entering through Saint-Denis but all things considered avoiding the closer city gate might prove to their advantage.

"I want four— no, six guards with us as we enter the city. Two guards to go ahead before us and to set themselves up at the fencing school. We don't want any surprises." The city, buildings and guards took shape before his mind's eye. "Have another two guards remain in Saint-Denis, with extra horses." 

Again Cahusac acknowledged the orders with a nod. 

"You may choose who accompanies us personally. How many Red Guard uniforms do we have here?"

The former captain of said Red Guard angled his head at the odd request, but responded without hesitation: "Two dozen full sets."

Cahusac hoped that he and those of his men who he had been able to take with him to the chateau would wear them again in short time and in honour – and not just on a rather spontaneous subterfuge mission. 

"Have them issued to anyone who accompanies us, but let them know they are not to put them on until we've reached the school. We don't want them to run into active guards and draw attention."

Cahusac acknowledged this as well, but there was something on his tongue that wanted out:

"Anything you want to add?"

The captain of the guard kept a perfectly straight mien as he answered: "In proposing this particular meeting site it, of course, never occurred to you, that the school isn't far from the musketeer garrison and thus Monsieur Treville's current lodgings?"

Richelieu did not smile.


	6. Vices: Greed

They reached Paris in the late afternoon. The sun shone golden on the city that lay unsuspecting of the task that had brought Richelieu to it. The warmth made the cardinal sweat slightly under the unfamiliar, heavy woollen cloak and the broad brimmed hat he had been given to conceal his identity. There was moderate activity at the city gates as was usual for the hour. Cahusac let the Red Guard ride ahead they had sent the previous day to bribe the guards. He would hopefully confirm that the guards were at their post as ordered.

While the party waited for him to return Richelieu was occupied by thoughts of what lay ahead. He called up the outline of the old fencing school in his mind. Before his inner eye rose walls, galleries, gates and the mossy courtyard. He knew exactly where his guards would be positioned and how they would conceal themselves until their informant arrived.

Another thought that came to him was that he was no longer made for riding. He tended to avoid it when not on campaign and now his back and joints were starting to ache after hours spent in the saddle. He could not wait to arrive at their destination and dismount. The realisation that this would mean that the meeting with a possible traitor or assassin was imminent disturbed him little. 

Not only because of his discomfort, but also because the prospect of their worst-case-scenario taking place paled in comparison to the anxiety that those thoughts caused him that he had vainly tried to push to the back of his mind during the ride. They were thoughts of red blood spreading across the pavement, of white skin paling and blue eyes growing dull. 

Richelieu shuddered despite himself, and then Cahusac appeared at his side.

"Permit me one more word on the matter, Your Eminence."

It was not hard to guess what was on the soldier's mind. It was the same thing that Richelieu could not afford to think about. 

"I belief you've said quite enough."

He preferred to study the mane of his horse instead of facing Cahusac. It was a sleek, black creature that had turned its attentive ears towards the city they would soon enter. 

The first challenge had been to leave without Alphonse's guests noticing anything out of the ordinary. The task proved comparatively easy, as Alphonse had complied with his brother's request and set out to entertain his guests on the estate grounds for a couple of hours while Richelieu and the Red Guards poured into the courtyard and practically emptied the stables. As long as Alphonse remembered to let some of Richelieu's remaining men stable his guests' horses no one would notice anything amiss.

The second challenge had been to resist Cahusac's attempts to apply to his conscience. The captain was quite good at it, too.

"I can't imagine Captain Treville would want you to do this." 

Richelieu's could feel his expression darken. Cahusac had to be using the title deliberately. He had been avoiding calling him anything other than Monsieur de Treville ever since Richelieu had introduced him as such to his council after word of his dismissal had gotten round."

"Don't presume to tell me what he would want. You don't know him."

The last man Richelieu had seen who had looked as unhappy as Cahusac did in that moment had just awoken after a surgery and found his sword arm amputated. It made Richelieu's conscience prickle sharply for some reason. 

"He's a soldier, an officer," Cahusac continued unperturbed. "He'll understand that what you're doing here is more important than him. He is not going to think you have abandoned him if you don't show up and he won't thank you if you do." Even though his arguments were reasonable and despite his solemn face Cahusac's tone was oddly flat. As if his heart was not in his speech. By this point his captain was only protesting pro forma rather than out of the belief that he could make Richelieu change his mind.

It made Richelieu regard him much more kindly now, but still he wanted this conversation to end. "Your protest has been noted. I won't hold you responsible for anything that follows. Is that Biscarrat coming back?"

It was indeed. The former Red Guard reported that it was safe to enter the city now; or rather as safe as it could possibly be under the circumstance. As they approached the watchmen in charge of the gate that would lead them out of the suburbs into the city proper Richelieu felt all the anxiety return that he had avoided up until now: 

_If they had seen the infamous cardinal before._

_If one of the guards studied his face too closely._

_If they had orders from Rochefort to seize him._

Richelieu could not stop himself from turning up his collar slightly as they passed through the gate, nor from pulling his hat deeper into his face. Dignity was not worth half a year of labour from the shadows being ruined. One of the guards still managed to catch his eye. The man leered. Richelieu's spine turned rigid to avoid a shudder. Only gradually did he remember the story he had proposed to be told to the guards as to why one of them had to pass into the city incognito and he began to relax. 

They entered the city without being stopped, without a call for their arrest. They had succeeded – at the very first step. 

Wordlessly Cahusac steered them all into the direction of the Chapel of Saint-Sauveur. With each passing step of his horse Richelieu became more and more aware of his surroundings. He had not been in Paris for more than half a year now, but a couple of months were meaningless compared to the time he had spent in Paris during all the decades of his adult life. When they passed a familiar road he knew he would have to turn right here and and then right again, following the street almost all the way down to the river to reach the Louvre and the Palais Cardinal. As they neared their destination he also remembered which way he would have to turn to arrive at the musketeer's garrison within fifteen minutes. 

One only had to follow this street, turn that way at the next, and already he would be with Treville.

Only a year ago Richelieu might still have thought himself above such longing, but it had to be precisely why Alphonse, Cahusac and the rest of his council had initially decided to keep Treville's injury from him. In a way they had done him a kindness. If the had not he would have found a way to rush to the city immediately – if he had not died of shock and worry. But when Cahusac had been able to tell him the news a day after the fact combined with the knowledge that Treville would recover he had been prepared to resign himself not to go to Paris – until their mysterious informant had appeared on the plan. 

Yes, they had done the right thing. But after the show he had put on two days ago he was loath to admit it.

Richelieu forced his eyes to follow Cahusac's hand as the captain gestured at the steeple rising above the other roofs in front of them. 

It was not time yet to prove how foolish he really was. There was business to be attended to first.

Once they met up with the guardsmen they had sent ahead to the school, and who had convinced themselves that the building was empty, all they had to do was wait.

The old fencing school behind the Chapel of Saint-Sauveur was well known to the Red Guard. Weeds were sprucing between the burst cobblestones of the old courtyard, but the walls surrounding it stood firm and shielded it from curious eyes on the streets. 

There had been a number of different tenants who had attempted to clean up the building and its yard since the times in which the place had last served as an actual fencing school but none of them had lasted for more than a couple of months. Yet still the walls surrounding the courtyard knew the sound of clashing rapiers. Despite the edicts that made duelling punishable by death and threatened the confiscation of any possessions the culprits might otherwise leave their kin, the underemployed youth of the Parisian nobility regularly sought out the place to happily slaughter each other over such life-and-death issues as who had picked up whose lady's handkerchief. 

It was how the Red Guard under Richelieu had come to know the school so well. They patrolled there often, but not frequently enough as to drive the delinquents to hold their duels outside the city and the easy reach of the law. 

It was the reason the cardinal had chosen the school as their meeting place with their potentially lethal informant. His guards knew which corners they had to search for uninvited guests lying in wait for a possible ambush, and where to position themselves to best conceal their numbers. 

Meanwhile two of the men had slipped on the Red Guard uniforms they had taken with them and patrolled in front of the school from time to time to dissuade prospective duellists. 

Being able to see their disappointed faces as they turned tail when they saw their preferred location of attempted suicide was guarded could be considered a final advantage of the location. The young men left quickly every time, disheartened that they would have to go find a new place to die. 

Apart from these minor distractions Richelieu was left to brood and wait for nightfall while Cahusac coordinated the movements of his guards. Most of them had taken up fixed stations and would remain there until their gracious host showed themselves. But in the meantime it could not hurt to have people patrol the shadowed halls of the building, just in case their informant had invited along a couple of surprise guests.

While Richelieu so far had managed to stay focused – and how could he not given that all he had worked for over the last couple of months was possibly at stake at this moment – he wished he was a couple of streets over instead, at the musketeer's garrison. 

This had never happened to him before. Richelieu considered it highly unworthy of the gravity of the situation, of the commitment of his men, and lastly, himself. But the thought alone did not help much.

Finally the horizon darkened, and Cahusac appeared at the cardinal's side from where he was overlooking the courtyard on a roofed gallery. The captain reported that everything was ready to receive their informant.

Richelieu could not help the prickling of guilt at the back of his mind as he thanked his captain and regarded him thoughtfully. Cahusac had only been captain of the Red Guard for about a year before the poisoning. But Richelieu had known him for far longer than that. Cahusac had practically been adopted by the man who presently served as Richelieu's chief spy at Monsieur's Court. This spy in turn was a man who, along with his sons, had made making themselves useful to the cardinal something of a family tradition for at least a decade now.

But now Richelieu found himself unable to shake the nagging feeling that he was repaying his loyalty poorly, as it had not been entirely a sense of duty that had driven him to be at the school and this same hour. But even if Cahusac indeed deserved a more cautious patron than him the cardinal knew that the captain did not regret his choice of master. 

"Do you know you owe him your position?" 

Confused wrinkles graced Cahusac's brow. 

"I might not go on about my staff my subordinates as readily as Treville does about his musketeers, but the topic does come up at times. Treville recommended to me to pick you." A thin-lipped smile appeared on his face. "We had a few choice words on the way I pick my captains, after Labarge."

Cahusac's eyes lit up in a flash of amusement too sudden for him to conceal. "I hope I compare favourably."

"We'll see."

"I'll make sure to thank him some day," he said, his expression turning more serious. A guard caught his attention by a pre-arranged signal, "But right now I believe our new friend has arrived." 

Richelieu felt his blood quicken as he stepped closer to the railing to have a better view. One way or the other, there would be answers.

The person who entered the fencing school was no stray duellist: First of all, the delicate figure covered by a shimmering cowl that cast her face in concealing shadow was undoubtedly female. And second, Boileau followed on her heels. 

The pair entered what remained of the former kitchen building where they would be protected from view from anyone inside the courtyard, and Richelieu caught a glimpse of the woman's face.

So, apparently, did Cahusac: "That's—"

Richelieu was going to strangle Boileau with his own hands. 

"It is. I guess we should greet her."

Cahusac walked down the steps into the courtyard in front of Richelieu. At the sight of them Boileau stepped back out of the kitchen, but Milady overtook him. With a graceful movement she swept back her hood as she approached her former employer.

"That's close enough." Richelieu's voice sounded calm but clear across the courtyard. He clasped his hands in front of him.

Milady complied with a sweet smile and a small curtsy.

They had stopped a couple of feet apart from each other. In fact, Boileau stood a few paces even behind Milady, as if he intended to melt back into the shadows at the first opportunity. Richelieu would deal with him later. 

"So you are alive." The surprise in Milady's statement was as real as Boileau's chances were of marrying the cardinal's great-niece at this moment. "I couldn't believe it until I'd seen you with my own eyes."

"And now that you've seen me?"

"You've looked better."

"I'm sorry my appearance causes you distress." Richelieu's neutral mien did not crack. "You, Milady, look astonishingly well for a woman without means who managed to fall from grace twice within less than two years. I'm impressed." 

"Still a step up from the grave, don't you think?" She pursed her lips at him. "I would have thought you above such pettiness, or are you forgetting that I have something you want?"

"I was under the impression it was _you_ who asked to see _me_?"

She rolled her eyes. "Do you want to know about your traitor or not?"

"Is it the one right behind you?"

Boileau twitched. "Pardon, Your Eminence. If you'd permit me a word, you specifically mentioned Milady when you suggested I look into this matter." 

"I won't permit it, and I will deal with your interpretation of my orders at a more appropriate time."

A bright smile spread over Milady's face at the exchange. "Oh, come now. Don't blame Antoine. He valiantly refused to give up your secrets."

 _Except the one about my survival_ , Richelieu thought, but he swallowed another reply. They had business to conduct after all, and Boileau could wait until they met in a more private setting. 

"I heard you have information for me."

"I do." She continued to smile. "Are you sure you want everyone to hear? I assume you didn't come here with only your guard captain in tow?"

"They are out of earshot, not out of pistol shot." He cast a meaningful glance along the court and up to the galleries where guards armed with light calivers stood hidden. 

Her smile did not vanish, but it froze. "All this attention. Just for me?"

"I hope you didn't expect anything different," he said coolly. "Why this charade, Milady?"

"I feared you wouldn't trust my intentions enough to come if you knew it was me who called you out here."

Richelieu could not deny that she had a point. "What do expect to gain by helping me?" 

"Don't fear. I don't want your patronage. Do you honestly think I would come here to beg to work for you again?" Her face twisted into a rather ugly expression as she smirked. "I want revenge."

"Pardon?"

"Not on you, on Rochefort." 

Richelieu released a breath he had not realised he was holding..

"I'm going to give you this one thing free of charge, in exchange for your reducing Rochefort to what he was before the musketeers dragged him out of his hole. And when you subject him to his final humiliation I want to be present."

"I'm willing to accept that, but I'm afraid Rochefort isn't very high on my list of priorities."

From the corner of his eye he saw Cahusac keeping an eye on the street entrance to the courtyard, as if he expected the Comte to stride in any given moment.

"He will be once you know what I know."

Richelieu did not think he had expected to receive only answers that did not raise ever new questions, but the disappointment he felt indicated that he had still hoped for it. 

"Rochefort?"

"I'm guessing none of these people you're out to get and hiding from is Rochefort, then? Shame. Because that is who your turncoat has been running to."

Richelieu pulled his eyebrows together without even noticing. He could believe Rochefort setting up many things: Alaman remaining undetected, Perales' murder, and the crimes committed by the fake princess. But the mayhem at the observatory? 

"How did you come to this knowledge?"

"You needn't have worried about my being without means earlier. I'm good at securing new patrons. Rochefort's offer to me wasn't very attractive at first glance, but being allowed into his lair I see and hear a lot more things than he intended. Such as a conversation between the Comte and your traitor."

"Who?"

There was a triumphant glint in her eyes as she spoke: "Fauchet." 

The name filled the silence it created like a flood. Richelieu did not let himself be swept away by it. But he noticed Boileau pale around the nose. It must have been news to him as well. 

If it was true.

Only a couple of days before Richelieu had fruitlessly tried to come up with a single thing Fauchet could possibly gain from betraying them in the way they had been betrayed. But the fact that he had been unable to think of anything did not mean Fauchet couldn't be connected to Rochefort in a way Richelieu did not yet know about. 

He thought back to their discussion of Passerat's murder. Fauchet's behaviour had not been that of a guilty man. But _no_ , that was not entirely true. The man's reaction had told him _nothing_ suspicious, not that he was innocent.

He turned back to Milady.

"What proof do I have that you're telling the truth?"

"You have my word." She played with the hem of her sleeves in a coquettish manner that made it obvious that she did not expect him to be satisfied with her answer, but ultimately did not care. 

"Apart from your word?"

"None. Until he stabs you in the back." She smiled the confident smile of the player who knew they held all the cards.

"Does Rochefort know I'm alive?"

"They didn't mention you by name, but our minister told Fauchet that if he wanted Rochefort to keep his secrets no word of who hired the princess' assassins should pass his lips in front of his master."

Unluckily, for Rochefort, Fauchet had not needed to speak about these things to Richelieu. Whatever he had revealed to Rochefort about what the cardinal was doing, Fauchet apparently had kept quiet about all the other spies at Court. Perhaps there was still hope. 

Still, Rochefort had found a way to apparently blackmail Fauchet and that was a problem.

"What secrets?"

"Now, I can easily find that out for you. I assume it ties into what I can tell you about Rochefort. But these things are going to cost you."

Richelieu knew that appealing to her sense of patriotism would only succeed in wasting time. 

"How much?" His voice was impatient rather than resigned. 

"Oh, don't worry, my wants are simple. No land, no title, no estates. Imagine if I were to end up beholden to you. I want no part of your new France. I want money. I'm going to leave this pesthole, but not as a penniless, disposed mistress."

"How much?"

"Ten thousand livres."

He laughed. "You're mad." It was the price of a not too shabby house. 

At his side Cahusac had angled his head so he could watch Boileau and the gate at the same time. He gripped the heft of his sword tightly. 

"Your choice. I can always try and sell my information somewhere else."

Richelieu's tone softened. "Why be unreasonable and receive nothing, when you could ask for 2000 livres and be content?"

"And you don't know what you're refusing."

"I'm going to take care of Rochefort in good time. Any connection he has to Fauchet will come to light eventually. Why waste so much money on information I don't need?"

She smiled at him sweetly in response, like a housecat presenting a fresh kill. "How's Treville?" 

Richelieu swallowed. His mouth appeared to have gone dry on its own volition.

"I never thought you of all people would be so foolish to threaten him."

"I'm not. But you are aware that it was Rochefort who set up him to fail again and again until the king had no choice but to dismiss him?" She started pacing a few steps. "Only the captain did not do as Rochefort hoped and refused to retire to his country estate, and when he dared to show himself again in the king's presence at the observatory Rochefort decided to apply more drastic measures to get rid of him." 

Her eyes sparkled in mirth as she watched Richelieu's expression freeze. He attempted to wear and impassive mask, but his emotions were betrayed by the bright fire in his eyes. 

"Through a lucky turn of events, this hasn't worked out for him either." Milady locked eyes with her opposite. "Yet."

Richelieu kept silent. Was she referring to Treville having been shot or something else? Rochefort hiring the pair of assassins to take out the council made sense to him, but in Cahusac's summary of the full story the attack on Treville had seemed a crime of chance instead of a deliberate act that had been planned in advance the way the archbishop's murder had been. 

Milady continued, undisturbed by his silence. "With what I can give you he can be taken down swiftly. Probably weeks before you are ready to pull off whatever you are planning to do from your exile. Is my information worth more to you now?"

"Five thousand livres." Richelieu cursed his dry throat as he bargained. He could not simply give in to extortion without putting up at least something of a fight. 

"Poor Captain Treville." He had not thought it possible but her grin became even wider as she spoke. "Confined to his sickbed, weak as a kitten. And all it takes is a bad glass of wine, an inattentive cook, a bribed physician… yet here we are, bartering."

"Eight thousand."

"It's getting too late for an honest woman like me to walking about outside." She looked down at her shoes, turning her profile towards him coyly. "Since we can't come to an understanding, it's best I left you to your business, Your Eminence."

Richelieu sensed Cahusac reaching around to grab his sword more than he saw it, but he threw out an arm to stop him. Threats and violence would only arrive at their goals with delay.

"You can have what you want."

Milady beamed at him, completely ignoring his dark face and the murderous intent in Cahusac's eyes. 

"As soon as I am in full control of my finances again—"

The cat-smile reappeared. "I'm afraid I don't intend to hang around that long. You either pay up or I'm leaving to sell my information elsewhere."

He knew Cahusac was trying to catch his attention, no doubt horrified at the direction the conversation had taken. But Richelieu did not intend to sacrifice even more of his dignity by arguing with his captain in front of Milady. 

"Unfortunately I don't keep that kind of money on me." He had intended to sound mildly annoyed, but a particular kind of desperation crept into his voice that he had last felt two days ago. 

"Oh, don't worry. I'm reasonable. I'll accept a note. Let's say tomorrow? Around the same time?" She tried for an innocent expression. Richelieu could feel fuming anger join his desperation. 

"I won't ask you to risk your person again. Let Cahusac handle it."

"I'll consider it." Even these small words of assent he had to force out through bile. 

Milady frowned at him in the most mockingly disappointed way she could muster. "Don't just consider it. People are counting on you. Are you going to see him now? I hope he appreciates how much he means to you." She laughed. "Ah, to still believe in love at your age."

Richelieu wrinkled his nose at her last comment, partly for the benefit of Boileau. He forced himself to take a deep breath as imperceptibly as possible. If Milady truly had the means to prove their fastest chance at bringing down Rochefort antagonising her further would get him nowhere. No matter how unberably she gloated. 

Let her enjoy her upper hand for the moment. The tables would turn soon enough. 

His thoughts soon returned to the matter at hand when she spoke next: "To give you another incentive to stick to our deal I'll give you one more teaser: Rochefort is working with Vargas."

It got better! 

Richelieu could feel himself becoming light-headed. Vargas! But that meant… whatever had that poor devil Perales done to induce the wrath of the Spanish spymaster?

Rochefort and Vargas. 

Rochefort, first minister of France, and Vargas.

And he had been worried about poisoners and princes. 

"And you're telling me all of this upfront? Why should I still pay you?"

"Because you don't have any proof. I can get you that proof. They have to communicate from time to time. And I can deliver you Fauchet's secrets. And knowledge of what Rochefort and Vargas are plotting against the crown." 

Looking at it like that the price of a shabby shed in some backwater province could be well worth a double agent in her position. 

"Cahusac will contact you through Boileau with the details of your payment."

She smirked and curtsied gracefully. 

With the conversation at an end they found themselves at an impasse, as no one wanted to be the first to turn their back upon the other. But Richelieu had every intention of moving on. 

"How do I know you won't revenge yourself upon me as well? For leaving you to Athos?"

"You think I haven't already?" Her tone was haughty, but she did not smile this time. "It wasn't quite as satisfying as I had hoped. But then I guess neither was your solution of abandoning me to the mercy of my dear husband, seeing as you now have to stoop to deal with me again." She paused "Don't worry. You have no more revenge to fear from me." 

Somehow Richelieu did not feel entirely reassured. 

"No one should be made to suffer solely for their poor choices in who they love."

An unusually solemn look crossed her face as she spoke, so briefly that Richelieu might have convinced himself he had imagined it if he were given to such flights of fantasy. It did not help the apprehension he felt creeping up his spine. 

"What have you done?" He took a step towards her without a conscious thought as if he meant to grab her, but she calmly raised her hood and made to leave.

"Nothing." She sounded tired rather than defensive

With brisk steps she walked out of the courtyard and Richelieu followed her with his eyes. He could have ordered his men to stop her, but decided to let her go. He would never trust her, but for now he needed her. Once that was no longer the case he could ask her what it was she had failed to do and not fear the manner in which he might react to that knowledge. 

His suspicions were bad enough. He had to stop by the musketeers' garrison. He had to. 

Cahusac appeared at the edge of his field of vision. He avoided his guard's eyes, not a little embarrassed that he had paid witness to his humiliation. "Don't say a word." He was upset at himself for having let Milady play him so easily. But even as he berated himself he could not stop thinking about what she had said. 

_Weak as a kitten._

_A bad glass of wine._

He turned around again when someone behind him cleared their throat: Boileau had stuck behind. 

Face white in the evening gloom he stood in the courtyard, for all purposes alone, despite being surrounded by half a dozen armed Red Guards invisible on the upper gallery and the buildings lining the yard.

At the cardinal's side Cahusac shifted his stance ready to step between him and Richelieu. 

But Boileau only said, "I have news."

"This was your chance to make an escape. I'm astonished you didn't take it." A part of Richelieu truly wished he had. It was the part of him that wished he were already out of the yard and on his way to the only place that could possibly chase away the images Milady had conjured up before his inner eye.

To Boileau's credit he appeared calm as he replied. Even the colour had returned to his face. For a moment, it looked like he intended to meet his fate with dignity, but then he spoke:

"I swear I didn't tell her anything she didn't already know. She'd figured out that Fauchet and I were still working for you all by herself. I told you of this before."

"Yes, after the cardinal confronted you about holding back information!"

Richelieu signalled Cahusac to stand down.

Boileau attempted no denial. "I can still be useful to you," he said.

Richelieu caught his gaze. "Try to convince me." They would have this conversation now. This was more important than any of his personal demons – so why did admitting it to himself feel so hard?

"It's about the queen." 

Richelieu blinked, once. Maybe Boileau was worth keeping around for a while longer.

"A while ago you told me to gain the Lady Marguerite's confidence in order to question her about the incident at the observatory. Her account of the events became irrelevant, but I kept meeting with her." 

Richelieu motioned for him to hurry up his tale.

"Well, she seemed lonely—"

"I congratulate you on being such a social person, but I'd appreciate if you could get to the point of this sad story. If there is one."

"Rochefort is blackmailing her to spy on the queen." 

"You did it. You managed to impress me. At the earliest opportunity you need to tell me how you managed to worm something of that calibre out of there."

"She—"

"No!" Richelieu underlined his command with quick glances at the watching guardsmen. They had been stationed at a distance that supposedly kept them out of earshot, but if Boileau was going to reveal secrets concerning the queen that even Richelieu knew nothing about, he could take no risks.

Richelieu had Cahusac lean close to whisper a new order into his ear and Boileau shut up. 

"Give me the details later," he said as Cahusac signalled to someone in the galleries. "I have other business to attend to in the city." 

Boileau bowed his head. "Of course, Your Eminence." His voice was a curious mix of relief and apprehension.

"Biscarrat is going to escort you home. As soon as dawn breaks you are to head to the chateau and report to me there." He saw Boileau swallow, but still the man nodded in compliance. "No need to be anxious. Biscarrat is going to watch over you all night."

They stayed in the courtyard until the said guardsman joined them and, after Cahusac pulled him aside for a couple of words, gestured to Boileau to lead the way to his apartments. As the two of them walked away, Richelieu took a moment to close his eyes and silently pray he had made the right choice. 

Then he sprang back into action. 

"Cahusac." 

"Your Eminence." The soldier stood to attention.

"I need a distraction if I'm to make it into the garrison. I had everyone of you take a Red Guard uniform with you. It's time you put them to use."

Cahusac made no motion to comply with Richelieu's request.

"I say this as your guard: We already made it into the city and met with a potential traitor. Don't you feel you are pushing your luck? If you are discovered—"

"It'll be the job of your guards to minimize the chances of that. And I do not believe that 'luck', as you call it, is a finite resource." 

Cahusac's guarded expression did not change. "I feel obliged to repeat that Captain Treville won't thank you for this—"

"Yes, I remember the first time you told me. Are you quite finished?"

"—but, we are close to the garrison, and after what Milady said I would appreciate knowing that he is well myself." 

Again, Richelieu blinked. 

"Am I hearing this right? You're encouraging me?"

Instead of a disapproving or the previous neutral mien there was a strange, mild expression on Cahusac's face of which Richelieu was not sure whether he liked it any more or less. 

"If you permit me to speak as a man instead of your guard I must say there are some things worth taking a – calculated – risk for. May I suggest we come up with an order from Rochefort that needs to be discussed in the privacy of the captain's office with whoever is in charge? That way we'll know who is in the office and will have to be cleared out of there by the second phase of our distraction before you can go in there."

For a moment Richelieu was uncertain whether to believe his ears. Cahusac not only approved his decision, he had planned ahead. 

"Your secretary already prepared a couple of fake orders to choose from. The demand for the three dozen muskets and swords to be handed over to us should work very well for the second phase – once we're done spying out the courtyard and office – as it should cause quite the uproar amongst the present musketeers. Enough to draw them into the yard and their attention from anyone slipping in with a convenient blue cloak." 

Richelieu stared at the papers Cahusac produced from the inside of his coat. In order to be able to leave the city without fuss after nightfall they all carried passes bearing the genuine seal of First Minister Rochefort and the decidedly less genuine handwritten orders and signature of the same, courtesy of Charpentier. Richelieu had yet to meet a person more skilled at imitating someone's hand than his secretary - a fact that saved the cardinal having to deal with a lot of additional paperwork.

The orders Cahusac carried were of the same make-up. 

Still staring Richelieu raised his gaze to Cahusac's eyes. He did not ask how Cahusac knew there was a musketeer cloak wrapped up in a package on his horse. 

"Denis and I may have bet against Le Masle on whether you would attempt the break-in or restrain yourself."

Richelieu was not sure whether laughing was an appropriate reaction, so instead he said: 

"Did you bet anything valuable?"

" _I_ didn't."

* * *

Sneaking into the city appeared easy compared to the challenge posed by sneaking into a garrison filled with musketeers who were feeling even more protective of their deposed captain than usual.

Fortunately, the one thing one could always rely upon even with a body of men as unpredictable and troublesome as the musketeers was that they would always band together against Red Guards. Especially against Red Guards invading their base. 

The boisterous way in which Cahusac's men demanded to be obeyed by the musketeers guarding the gate quickly spread into an argument, which turned to shouting, which turned into a commotion which summoned Athos and another musketeer that Richelieu did not recognise from the captain's office. According to the guard they had sent in there barely more than half an hour earlier it should be empty now.

"What is going on?" Athos descended the wooden steps with his companion and headed for the tumult at the gate with murder on his face.

Richelieu took this as his chance to squeeze by the soldiers who had started shoving. Any moment now swords would be drawn. 

The Red Guards had orders to retreat before blood was shed, but it looked like Athos was going to prevent either side from going that far. His shouts echoed clearly across the courtyard to where Richelieu was rushing up the stairs in a blue cloak, the brim of his hat obscuring his face.

Getting out of the garrison without being stopped and seen could turn out somewhat trickier than getting in, but Richelieu counted on Treville's authority to help him with that.

One of the Red Guards shouted something back, indistinctly. There was a scuffle to be heard and the sound of a rapier being freed of its sheath. 

Richelieu was unconcerned about those noises. He listened for a creaking of the steps that lay behind him, and for a footfall in the room opposite the door he was pressed against, but he could hear nothing but the hustling and arguing going on in the courtyard.

He took a steadying breath and turned the handle. The door was unlocked and opened for him noiselessly.

The office was empty. A candle on the desk had been recently snuffed, presumably by Athos before he had headed out to avoid any accidents with the paperwork. But the fireplace served to illuminate the place sufficiently. However, Richelieu would have had no trouble finding his way in the dark. Treville's private chambers that adjoined the office could hardly be called spacious. There was a small antechamber that also served as a reading room, an even smaller space Treville used for storage, and the bed chamber. 

Without hesitating Richelieu hurried to the door that led to the antechamber and immediately closed it behind him. After the fire lit office he found himself in darkness. The room was illuminated only by the moonlight that fell through its small, rectangular window and Richeliau paused for a moment for his eyes to adjust and penetrate the shadows. 

One of the shadows moved. 

It was like being hit by a charging warhorse. 

Before Richelieu had a chance to retreat or advance the shadow slammed him against the door. He could have heard its hinges creak and groan if not for the ringing in his head. Colourful dots glittered in front of his eyes and he grunted with pain. Before he had regained his bearings the pressure on his chest and collarbones disappeared and there was a hand around his throat. 

"Who are you!"

The noise Richelieu made sounded animalistic to his own ears. He had no breath no talk. He dug his nails into his assailant's wrist but he might as well have tried to scratch a metal vice. 

His assailant realised that he could not very well talk while he choked so he released his grip on the cardinal's throat and grabbed him by the shoulders instead, then he yanked him into the light. 

"I'll ask you only once what you're doing here, and you better answer quick." said the musketeer Richelieu recognised as Porthos as he pressed Richelieu against the window frame. The hat, already askew, fell to the floor during the motion. 

Richelieu still had not caught his breath, but he did not need to. Porthos' grip slackened in shock.

"You!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternative title for this chapter is: 'Richelieu can't catch a break.'
> 
> I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you at this point for a week as RL has got me in its clutches and I won't be able to post next week. But at least this should be the only break like that, and it's reunion time with Treville next, so that's something, right?


	7. For They Will Be Comforted

_Didn't they notice he was gasping for air? Why didn't they turn him onto his back? He could not breathe through the pain and the dam inside his lungs; nor could he speak. Someone was talking to him, but there was no way to make them hear._

_He thought he heard Armand's voice._

He woke up.

* * *

"You," Porthos repeated. 

As soon as the musketeer let go of his collar Richelieu reflexively raised a hand to his abused throat.

"Yes," he said, absurdly relieved that he could still speak, "me." Still shaky on his legs, he propped himself up against the window frame he had been pressed against moments before. The bright lights had stopped dancing in front of his eyes, and he hoped his breathing would normalise soon. But even as he waited for his heart-rate to setlle down he did not take his eyes off the musketeer and saw that Porthos was doing the same to him. 

Although the cardinal's thin frame blocked most of the light from the window, Richelieu could still tell that the musketeer looked shocked.

"What do you want?" he repeated, only this time his voice had lost much of its volume and force. 

"I'm no assassin and no apparition. No doubt you already convinced yourself that I'm unarmed? I simply need to speak to Captain Treville."He used Treville's former rank deliberately; to show respect. His voice still resembled something of a wheeze.

"He isn't captain any longer." Porthos' voice turned from shocked disbelief into something harder. "If you'd been around you would know that."

Richelieu had to admit to Porthos' credit that his response to the situation was a lot more level-headed and intelligent than the exclamation of _but you're dead!_ that he believed to be more traditional under the present circumstances.

In fact, Porthos continued to surprise him:

"So, that uproar outside's your doing, is it? I should call them all inside to have a look at who's back."

Richelieu opened his mouth, frantically reaching for the right words to convince the musketeer that this would be a very bad idea, but Porthos did not let him speak. "I won't do it. Because you'll have some excuse for this horseshit that'll sound too damn reasonable. So all I wanna know is, does _he_ know?"

"Pardon?"

"Does Treville know you're alive or is he going to be upset when I let you in there?"

"He knows." He was probably still going to be upset about this unannounced visit, but Richelieu could see no benefit in telling Porthos that.

The musketeer, who had already appeared unhappy enough before he heard his reply, shut his eyes briefly, twisting his lips as if he had bitten on something hard and sour. But when he looked up the expression was gone, replaced by a look of steel. 

"Wait here."

Richelieu watched as Porthos knocked on the door leading to the bedchamber. Before he entered, he locked eyes with Richelieu.

"If you upset him, you're the one who's going to need bed rest, understood?" 

"Understood." Richelieu was too taken aback to say anything else. 

Porthos disappeared into the bedchamber closing the door behind him. Richelieu knew from experience that it was quite a sturdy door, almost as thick as the walls. He heard nothing of what was discussed behind it. 

After about a minute or two the door opened again and Porthos beckoned him inside before announcing him like a petitioner at a Royal audience: "His Eminence, the Cardinal of Richelieu."

What he could see of the room as he entered was empty except for the chair sitting in front of the fireplace. He turned towards the bed and saw Treville sitting up in it, looking at him with a questioning expression, and Richelieu distinctly felt his heart skip a beat. The former captain of the musketeers was tucked in with a blanket that, in his sitting position, only covered him up to his stomach where he rested his folded hands. The linen shirt that he wore was open at the neck, allowing a view of the bandages partly covering his chest. A number of candles had been lit on the windowsill on the other side of the bed, adding a bit of warmth to the man's face that appeared to Richelieu supernaturally pale in the silvery moonlight. 

"Your Eminence," he said.

"Captain." For a moment Richelieu was unsure of what to do _first_ : to cry in relief, or to kiss him, or simply to hold him, just so he could feel the heat of his skin. 

"Shall I take care of the fire, Captain?" Porthos' deep baritone reminded Richelieu that they still had an audience. He half turned around and spotted the musketeer standing close by, within easy reach of the visitor. 

"That won't be necessary, Porthos. Thank you."

"I'll be outside."

"Porthos, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too." There was a curious anxiety in his voice that Richelieu had never before heard a musketeer use around his captain.

Porthos bowed his head to them both and pulled the door closed behind him.

"What was that about?"

Treville's expression took on the same sour note that Porthos had exhibited earlier. "Secrets."

A sinking feeling took hold of Richelieu's heart. He had never thought this would come, but under the circumstances the last thing he wanted to cause was a rift between Treville and the musketeers.

"You're not the only one who tries to protect people by keeping things from them," Treville said.

To Richelieu's surprise he did not hear an accusation in those words. Instead, Treville sounded defeated.

"I won't prod," he said and tried a smile in the small hope to raise his lover's spirits, "this time."

Treville did not reply. Whatever had brought on this mood occupied him too deeply and so Richelieu left him to his thoughts for a moment as he went to carry the empty chair next to the bed. As soon as he was sitting down his hands sought Treville's right which lay closest to him.

Now that they were alone Treville felt free to utter heir customary lovers' greeting: "What in heaven's name are you doing here?"

"All this time you've been forced to come to me, now I'm coming to you."

"Why?"

Treville was not in the mood for his sense of humour. He looked tired, and Richelieu squeezed his hand tightly.

"Why come here? Porthos has seen you!"

"But he's the only one. I was hoping you'd assure me he'll keep quiet about it."

"He is."

Treville sighed, shakily, and turned his head to consider the candles with a heavy gaze.

"Why did you come, Armand?"

"You've been shot."

Richelieu felt a chill crawl up his spine. Looking at Treville while saying it only made it more real. The bandages had something to do with that.

"Believe me, I know." A weary smile tugged at the corners of Treville's mouth as Richelieu looked on, but it did not help the anxiety rolling off of the cardinal in waves. 

"There's a hole in your back, and your lung—"

"Really? I thought they'd stitched me up. Bloody well felt like it. We better call Dr Lemay so he can do it properly this time."

"You need rest."

"I _was_ sleeping."

"I'm sorry." Somehow, lately, be it his death, be it his legacy with Rochefort, or now Milady, he only seemed to cause Treville distress. 

But the captain's expression softened.

"Don't be. I like you here."

Treville lifted one of Richelieu's hands to his chest. The cardinal could feel the cloth of the bandages beneath his fingers, but above them he also felt warm skin. He ran his fingers through the soft hair.

Closing his eyes, he sighed, no longer able to restrain his feelings. And why should he? He was finally with Treville and there was no one there to judge.

Mindful of the bandages he leaned in closely for a kiss and Treville's familiar lips parted under his. Without a need to see he felt the soft skin, the texture of Treville's beard, the welcoming resistance of his tongue, his teeth. He smelled the familiar scent of his lover and could feel his warm breath on his skin; all telling him that Treville was alive. The realisation flooded through him on a wave of relief.

Even if Treville were not still holding on to the cardinal's hand on his chest Richelieu would not have removed it for anything in the world. When they eventually pulled apart Richelieu kept close to Treville's, content to look at his lover who was still breathing and whose skin was warm under his fingertips. 

As Richelieu watched his Treville's face he wondered whether his own expression, too, was looking so frightfully fond. 

"How are you?" he asked. "Really?"

"I'm not going to die," Treville said, still looking much too pale to Richelieu's eyes, and worry stole itself back into the cardinal's countenance.

"You should take your leave for a while. I can send someone to fetch you once you're sufficiently recovered."

Treville laughed at him, softly, and Richelieu wondered if it was even possible for him to have laughed any other way with his injuries.

"I can't leave here." Richelieu leant closer as Treville's voice was becoming quieter. Speaking tired him. "We already argued about that."

"Someone tried to kill you." 

Another sigh escaped Treville. "It comes with the job." As he spoke he caught Richelieu's gaze and held it. "You can't lecture me: How many attempts on your life have we had to foil by now?"

"None of which ever came so close!"

Apart from Father Luca's attempt to murder him. And apart from this most recent poisoning. But the fact was that he had been responsible enough to remove himself from the scene. Apart from this trip to Paris.

Treville pinned the lie with one sceptic look and Richelieu thought better of continuing his protest. He would have to change tactics. 

Then Treville's expression turned impish.

"Nice cloak."

His drifting thoughts shattered, Richelieu wrinkled his brow as he only now remembered what he was wearing.

"It's a much nicer colour than red," Treville said lightly, but then frowned. "You're going to return it once this is over. As well as any other musketeer uniforms you have."

"I promise you it's an emergency measure. Cahusac refused to help me climb through your window so I had to think up something else."

By the sound of his sigh, Treville was too tired to argue, but he managed to smile at Richelieu.

"Coming here was stupid. The risk you ran—" 

"It worked, and all my work will still be there when I return."

"Porthos caught you."

"But no one else."

No doubt Richelieu was going to have a couple of pretty bruises to show for it tomorrow from the way he had been manhandled. But he regretted nothing. 

"I had to come." For someone who was infamous for being quick with his tongue all throughout France and beyond the right words seemed inordinately sluggish in presenting themselves to him. "I had to make sure you wouldn't let yourself be distracted from your recovery."

It was not what Richelieu meant to say but he guessed that Treville knew. _I needed to make sure you were recovering. I needed to make sure you were still breathing._

"I'm fine," Treville said. "I'm going to be fine," he added, when he realised his general appearance clearly belied his words. "When you're back at the chateau I'd prefer if you concentrated on working on returning to Paris for good without worrying about me."

"It's not easy." 

If he believed in chance Richelieu would wonder what the odds were of all this misfortune befalling Treville in such a short time. But as it was the the cardinal did not believe in chance, and he already knew the very earthly true root of their trouble. 

He felt Treville's hand tug at his cloak, drawing him closer again.

"I'm safe now," he said.

Richelieu wished he could agree. 

"Rochefort hired the man who shot you. He sees you as a threat." He had planned to wait until Treville had regained some of his strength before upsetting him with the truth about his assassin, but he had since realised how futile and potentially dangerous that would be. Whatever Rochefort was planning, he would not halt his plans until Treville was back on his feet.

Richelieu had no doubts that Treville would have found out about Rochefort sooner or later, even when he had to rely on as rowdy a lot as the musketeers to doe the investigating. It was better if he learned it from Richelieu, now.

Treville took the news calmly. The corners of his mouth even twisted up in the mockery of a grin. "I'm flattered. I thought he'd forgotten about me after he took away my command."

"He'll try again."

"Why? He's got what he wants. He's First Minister. He's the only one who has the king's ear. Not even the queen can get to him." He snorted, immediately followed by a cough. 

Richelieu reached for his shoulders with a worried look on his face, but Treville shook his head.

"I don't know why he bothered with me."

Something in Richelieu curled up at these words. "As I keep telling you, Louis is going to forgive you, and Rochefort is rightfully scared of that day."

"One more reason to stick around then." Treville smiled. 

"I understand you don't want to miss the king returning your command to you once you're dead since it will be a novelty, but it won't help our cause."

"Do you expect me to run away?"

Richelieu rubbed his eyes in frustration. It would certainly take a load off his mind if he did, but of course he would never be able to talk Treville into leaving Paris as simply as that. Treville was not a person who could be forced into hiding easily, Richelieu would never have felt drawn to him as much if it were any different, but in sometimes his stubborness was more exasperating than attractive. When faced with a question of death or dishonour Treville tended to favour the wrong choice. 

"I can't abandon my men."

Loyalty was another of those two-edged qualities Treville had in abundance.

"That's not what you keep telling them, I hear."

If Treville had appeared tired before he looked exhausted now.

"They're good men. They're also going to have a new commanding officer soon, especially if Rochefort feels he's now in a position to insist. And they don't need me around when it happens. But until then, I can't leave."

Richelieu knew the feelings behind Treville's continuing indecisiveness: He had set his mind on staying for at least as long as Rochefort posed a threat to the regiment. But it would do the musketeers no good to see the new leader of the pack chase out the old. The musketeers were sentimental about Treville like that. It was one of the few things Richelieu appreciated about them.

"The man who shot me was working with the false princess to assassinate key figures in the king's council. If Rochefort hired the assassins he did so to break any opposition to him becoming First Minister. He's done that. I don't believe he's feeling threatened by me now." The musketeer cast a quick glance over his bandages. 

"You'll be on your feet again, eventually." Richelieu stroked a thumb over the back of Treville's hand. 

"Even if Louis reinstates my commission, what am I going to do against the First Minister?"

It was Richelieu's turn to smile grimly. "My predecessor in the position was murdered by the captain of the king's guard on Royal orders."

There was a sour note to Treville's expression, but eventually he shrugged. "Rochefort would have to fall out of the king's favour first before he shares the fate of Marie's favourite. Unless you have iron proof that he ordered the murders of those council members that won't be easy. Louis trusts no one but him."

He fixated Richelieu with a serious look. "Do you _have_ proof?"

"I don't need it."

 _Not if what Milady told me is true_ , Richelieu thought. "By the time I return the post of First Minister will be empty again. Waiting for me. Rochefort will be left with nothing."

"How?" Treville's face darkened. "What are you going to do to him?"

Richelieu understood at once what Treville suspected and found himself disturbed into silence. Even after all Rochefort had done the thought of Richelieu instigating the man's murder still disgusted Treville.

Even after all Rochefort had done to _Treville_.

As Richelieu's eyes were drawn to the bandages crossing his lover's chest he could not deny a wish to turn that idea into a reality, but that was not the plan.

"I won't touch a hair on his head. But the king will be made to see him for what he truly his and Rochefort will be returned to the nothingness he sprang from."

The prospect did not lighten Treville's mood. Richelieu wished he could offer him any details, but so far he himself had nothing but Milady's word and he was haunted by the a suspicion that Treville would never allow himself the rest he needed once he knew who Rochefort was working with. 

"What is he? Did he—" Treville's eyes widened. "Was he involved in your poisoning?"

"He had nothing to do with it." At least this was the truth. 

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know who did it and working with Rochefort is far beneath their style. Apart from that, Rochefort was still in Spain at the time." Although probably no longer confined to a cold, dark dungeon. 

"Simply keep away from the Comte for now. Even if he no longer intends to kill you now that he's First Minister, he will change his mind if you keep antagonising him."

Richelieu could tell by the expression on his face that Treville's thoughts had already moved to the next problem.

" _What_ is he?", he asked.

"There's nothing you can do about him." Richelieu continued to stroke Treville's hands. "Least of all in the condition you've gotten yourself in." _The condition that Rochefort had gotten him into_. "You said it yourself: he has the king's ear and there is nothing you can do to him, for now."

"He killed the councillors. He set up Perales, he set me up. And you still want me to leave him be."

A minute ago Treville had still been cynical about the attack on him. If only Richelieu could bring himself to be more appreciative of his return of spirit.

"I'll take care of him in good time. He won't remain First Minister long enough to do lasting damage."

"And the short-term damage is nothing of your concern?" 

"Jean."

"If one more person happens to upset him and he has them killed, do you think that's lasting damage?"

Richelieu could see Treville getting worked up, but he had no way to assuage him without an outright lie. There was no way to keep everyone safe. Not at Court, not in Paris.

"Jean, I need him where he is."

"Why?" 

"Please, you need to rest. Leave this to me."

Treville sat up and pulled away his hand. "What are you not telling me?"

"There is someone else behind his plotting."

"Who?"

"Jean, please." Richelieu took his hand again and tried his most imploring look.

"At least give me a single reason to leave the highest office in France in the hands of a murderer!"

"When you're stronger."

"Tell me!"

"I won't. For your own sake!"

"God damn you, Armand!"

"Is everything alright, Captain?"

The door opened and Porthos followed it into the room. He looked from his captain who was sitting up in bed red-faced with anger to Richelieu erect in his seat like a statue. His face betrayed nothing, but the hand on his sword, the wide-legged stance and the gleam in his eyes spoke of his readiness to fight.

"Shall I escort His Eminence out?" The question trailed off in a fashion that implied the rest of the words meant to follow it, something along the lines of "not necessarily through the door." 

Richelieu watched Treville take a deep breath that did nothing much to calm his racing heart. He had to keep himself from reaching out to him.

"No, thank you. Everything is in order."

Porthos relaxed his stance, but kept his neutral mien.

"Captain. Your Eminence." Before he turned to leave, he mustered Richelieu with a stern look and the cardinal could not help but wonder where this kind of vigilance had been when the captain had been shot.

Only after Porthos had retreated back to the adjoining room did Richelieu realise he was still clasping Treville's right hand.

Treville did not appear to mind or notice. His eyes were focused on the door the musketeer had left through.

"You're right," he said, still sounding breathless. "I need to regain my strength first. As I am, I'm in no shape to deal with everything at once."

"Believe me; Rochefort is at the top of my priorities," Richelieu said, rubbing Treville's hand. _He's responsible for this_. The thought would not leave Richelieu alone. 

Treville simply nodded at him, resigned and frustrated, absentmindedly rearranging the covers around him. Richelieu did not begrudge him his earlier rage. Being confined to his bed while around him the kingdom was changing under the hands of someone like Rochefort would frustrate any man. But this injury came on top of his lost commission. On top of whatever tension had arisen between him and Porthos. And on top of his Richelieu playing spy games, while pretending to be dead and having to keep Treville in the dark once again.

Adding to Treville's worries was not the reason he had come here. The captain did not deserve to be kept in the dark, especially after Richelieu had promised him he would be more forthcoming. But the First Minister of France quite possibly being an agent of Spain was not knowledge Treville needed to have while he was recovering.

"It's Monsieur." Richelieu spoke quickly, before he could think better of it. "He ordered my poisoning." 

Treville looked up at him with an expression that made Richelieu uncertain which of them was more surprised at what he had just said.

"Gaston?" Treville leant back into his pillow, sucking in air. A curious expression stole itself into the corners of his eyes, mingling disbelief, shock and a cruel sense of humour. 

"If you prefer telling me this over whatever Rochefort's done or is planning on doing I don't think I want to know about that anymore."

"I'm going to tell you, whether you'll like it or not. As soon as this is all over." Richelieu knew it was not the first time he was making this promise and Treville responded with a fitting look of mild contempt.

"When is that going to be?"

But Richelieu felt, that for once he could deliver good news. "Not long now." 

Treville perked up at that, his eyes gleaming attentive in the warm light of the candles and fireplace. "Truly?"

"We had to minimise our operations while sounding out the leak, but now that we know who betrayed us we can put a stop to it. Once the leak is contained we can go ahead preparing the immediate removal of a dozen of Monsieur's most influential friends at court at the same time that I present myself to the king. There will be no time for him to react. We're already preparing the arrest warrants for Cahusac to deliver."

"I thought I was going to be the one to arrest them?" 

There was genuine disappointment in his voice as far as Richelieu could tell. It made him smile.

"Pardon me, my dear, but I doubt you are going to arrest anyone soon." Richelieu kept his tone light, as a smile found its way onto his lips. "Not only will they have every right to question your authority since you displeased our good King Louis, but as you pointed out yourself you also are in dire need of bed rest."

Treville grimaced at him. "You don't think I'll be fit enough to take over for Cahusac by then?"

"Perhaps. But how likely is it that you will be in a position to do any arresting on the king's behalf in a couple of weeks?"

"So soon?" Treville's eyes shone brightly in the candlelight and Richelieu returned to stroking his hands.

"Once we have isolated our traitor I'm sure Cahusac can handle the arrests on his own."

"Who?"

Richelieu's smile turned into something more akin to a gloat. "Two secretaries of state, an intendant of finances, the Lord Keeper." He looked forward to replacing them with his own favourites. The Lord Keeper of the Seal in particular had been a thorn in his side for too long. The man had somehow managed to hang on to his position since Marie de Medici's times, even when the rest of her followers had been purged.

But Treville tore him out of his late night daydreaming: "That's not what I meant. Who betrayed you?"

Richelieu hesitated only for a second, weighing the answer on his tongue.

"Fauchet." 

"Hm," made Treville as if unsure about what this revelation meant. "What have you done about him?"

"Not much, I'm afraid." 

Treville stared at him in disbelief.

"I only learned about him from one of our spies an hour ago. It's what I came to Paris for. I don't think Cahusac and my secretaries would have allowed me to come for any other matter."

"And still you came here instead of—" Treville broke off, wide-eyed, searching his face. 

"I couldn't go back to work without knowing you're safe." The words formed on his tongue of their own accord. They were the only words he could have said after he had carried the knowledge of their truth with him for days. Denying them would have required him to swallow his tongue.

He would not tell Treville about Vargas, yet, but he could tell him everything else. And with the words once spoken came the realisation of the depth of feeling they implied.

"Armand!" Treville sat up straight, but his voice, usually so gruff, sounded flustered. "You kept insisting – since the beginning – that this operation was more important than anything else!"

"You're important to me as well." Richelieu caught his gaze and held it. Once again he noted that Treville's eyes were of such an intense shade of blue that even lighting as dim as the one in his bedroom at this very moment could not rob them of their colour.

"Armand!"

"I love you."

Treville's expression made him wonder whether if it had been lighter he would have seen the proud musketeer blush. 

"You're mad," Treville said, but his gaze said something entirely different. Sitting up straight again he grabbed Richelieu's collar and drew him in for a kiss. Richelieu submitted without complaint, sighing when he felt Treville's tongue push into his mouth. One of his hands found the back of Treville's head to draw him closer.

"I love you," he repeated, as they drew apart, only for a moment: Treville kissed him again before he could utter another word.

Richelieu was aware that the musketeer's movements were not as coordinated as usual. The interruption of his rest was taking its toll. After a while Treville pulled away to rest his head on Richelieu's shoulder. 

The cardinal thought he heard him echo "I love you" into the blue cloth of his cloak in a mumble. He decided against asking him to repeat himself. The sensation of Treville's chest rising and falling against his was enough.

The next thing he heard him say was business once more. As it should be.

"What are you going to do about Gaston after the arrests?"

The return to their original subject did not change the familiar mood they had entered into, nor did it stop Richelieu from slinging an arm around Treville, who remained leaning against him, his head resting on the cardinal's shoulder.

"Nothing," he replied, feeling Treville's beard rub against the skin of his neck. "I'm hoping to keep Rochefort alive long enough to blame the attempt on my life on him, as an act of revenge for my abandoning him in Spain." In fact, if they could find or enhance tangible evidence of Rochefort's activities as a spy, he might be able to find a way to conveniently and convincingly implicate Vargas as well. But he would hold off telling Treville about that until the captain was well enough to come to him for another visit.

"And you can't bring him down now, because you still need time to remove Monsieur's allies." As if to reinforce Richelieu's decision to go easy on Treville's nerves, the musketeer was beginning to sound comfortably sleepy despite the subject. "So you won't be accusing the prince of anything?"

 _That way civil war lies_. The tentative note of relief in his voice told Richelieu that Treville knew it as well. When Richelieu had first mentioned Gaston's name he must have envisioned the ruin any armed uprising against Louis was certain to plunge the country in. After all, they had both lived through the last civil war that had been sparked by Marie's greed. None of them wished to see the second act staged by her younger son.

"No. This way Gaston will be allowed to save face, avoiding unnecessary unrest, while Rochefort will be removed. Gaston, of course, will know the truth, but he's just intelligent enough to be able to recognise this as my offer of peace to him. He will be allowed to gracefully keep his head down for a couple of years, if he does not utter too much protest at the arrest of his supporters." 

Said allies would be looking forward to a cushy room with a view from the Bastille, earned by bribery, fraud and conspiry against the Crown. Most of these charges would not even be made up, especially the charges of conspiracy, but for the sake of public peace no accusations of treason would ever be uttered before witnesses.

"There won't be any blood shed," he continued. _Except Rochefort's_. 

He both heard and felt Treville exhale in satisfaction. Then the musketeer kissed the spot between his jaw and ear. "I can't wait."

Richelieu smiled.

"If we manage to remove even three-quarters of our targets from both the Royal Court and his, Monsieur won't be in a position to stake another claim on the throne for a while. Ideally not until the Dauphin is of a less vulnerable age."

"What am I going to do until then?"

"Don't get shot again."

He winced as Treville nipped him with his teeth.

"Stay put for me," he said, letting one hand slide to the back of his lover's head. 

"How long?" Treville asked before he moved to nuzzle Richelieu's neck. 

"Only two more weeks," the cardinal said. "Three at most."

Richelieu felt Treville's warm breath ghost over his skin as the musketeer sighed, his voice barely raised above a whisper. "Just be quick."

Richelieu did not stay much longer. Treville was tired and the cardinal could not let his guards wait for him all night, or they might decide he needed rescuing. He left the garrison unchallenged, helped along by Porthos, still warm from Treville's embrace. And after reuniting with his guards and successfully passing out through the city gates unmolested – with the help of Charpentier's forged papers – Richelieu felt that for once everything might just go according to plan.


	8. Those Who Hunger, part I

The warm feeling stayed with Richelieu during the ride back to the chateau and survived into morning. But recollection of the tasks ahead of him cooled his mood. His council's preparations to pay Milady reminded Richelieu how easily he had been manipulated by his former spy. Soon Boileau would arrive, since the cardinal had invited him for a chat, and in the meantime he had to decide what was to be done about Fauchet. 

Richelieu reminded himself that he was doing the work he had set out to do: that Milady and Boileau were going to help him bring down a serious threat to France. Rochefort, both despite and for his unstable mind, remained a dangerous man. 

It were these thoughts that made the golden feeling he had carried with him from Paris seem so far away on this morning. 

The thought of what the Comte might still do in those days left to him as First Minister unsettled the cardinal. But Richelieu could not deny that whenever he pictured this threat his mind kept drifting back to Treville more often than to political matters. 

As they were heading to the by now familiar office in which Richelieu would receive their visitor, Cahusac joked that it was a good thing their game of hiding was about to end, or the increased traffic to and from the chateau might make people wonder why Alphonse had become so popular. Richelieu sighed, taking Cahusac's humour for an attempt to sweep away the tension that had built up between them over the last couple of days.

He knew exactly what had previously made Cahusac so uneasy. It was what Richelieu himself once had been afraid of: that he would grow too dependant on one person and become vulnerable in the process. But he also knew that he could never give up any of what it gained him; especially not after last night. 

Back when he had considered the career possibilities that opened to him once it had become clear to young Armand that he would become a priest he had still naively assumed that a good Catholic life would prevent him from such distractions. By now he knew he was far from a good Catholic in many regards. His work was to ultimately raise France to be the foremost of the Catholic nations and to protect the faith within its boundaries. But his methods were often underhand. In his work to uphold the divine commandments he employed people who broke them. Not to mention his very personal transgressions, not the least represented in the mistresses he had kept both out of a need to fulfil societal expectations and a very human need for company.

All he could hope for was that the sum of his work would amount to a balance once his earthly accounts closed, and that at least the hope of purgatory was reserved for his soul. 

As for Treville, it was no surprise that his Catholic resolve had failed him again where the musketeer was concerned. Yet, Richelieu did not believe that love and longing was enough to damn a man. And too often in recent times it had been a disappointed look from Treville where delicate decisions regarding politics were concerned that had prevented him from selling his very soul too cheaply. 

Hearing movement behind the door leading to the office made him sit straight. A few moments later Boileau entered, escorted by Biscarrat. If he had known about the cardinal's thoughts the nobleman might have wished for Treville to be there to send more warning glances out to Richelieu. 

"Boileau. How courteous of you to be punctual. I do hope you had a restful night under the watchful eye of Biscarrat." He motioned said guard to retreat back to the door.

The young nobleman did not look like he had had a good night, or a good morning. His face was aged by lines of worry, but even after a polite greeting Boileau did not protest his treatment. At least not too loudly. 

"About yesterday evening," he began with a voice no doubt strengthened by rehearsal, "I swear I did not reveal to Milady anything of importance."

"You told Milady I was alive!" The disbelieving tone came naturally under the circumstances.

Boileau's expression turned pleading. "She'd already guessed! And I had to win her trust to get what you needed from her. I had to give her something in return!

Richelieu sank deeper into his chair, raising a hand to his temples as if trying to massage away a head.

"I would have appreciated if you had discussed this matter with me. What made you think I didn't need to know? And don't raise your voice to me again," he added.

Boileau dropped his gaze. "I was improvising."

Richelieu snorted. "How fortunate you never became an actor then."

Boileau appeared to shrink before him, bowing his head, but it would take more than that for Richelieu to believe a man to be harmless. 

"Punish me for being forward," Boileau burst out into the cardinal's deliberate silence with a suddenly revitalised tone of conviction, "but at least don't let my transgressions be the end of yours and my family's ambitions."

Richelieu sighed. Why did people assume he would take personal matters out on their families? Did they really take him for the villian out of a medieval epic who turned every grudge into a blood feud?

"We'll see about that. I believe you had something to tell me about the Lady Marguerite?"

He could almost see Boileau's heart lift in relief as he drew himself up again. "I do."

"And this concerns Rochefort and the queen?" He stalled, giving Biscarrat time to close the door behind him as the guard removed himself from the scene. It was safer that way for the Red Guard. For Richelieu's safety, however, Cahusac was waiting in the wings. 

"As I was trying to tell you, Rochefort is blackmailing her to spy on the queen. What she found—"

"How?" He would end up feeling foolish if it turned out that Marguerite was be enough to bring down Rochefort after he had discarded her as a valuable source so quickly after the incident at the observatory, but he would rather feel foolish than waste another opportunity. Especially if Milady turned out less effective than she had promised. "What does he have against her? Such an unassuming woman?"

"She had an affair with a musketeer."

Richelieu kept his reaction to a minimum, but could not help the slight widening of his eyes. "Who?" Perhaps Treville was finally going to take some of Richelieu's advice to heart, regarding the regiment, if it turned out a musketeer had enabled Rochefort's scheming.

"His name is Aramis."

As his stomach performed an uncomfortable leap Richelieu was left with the uncanny feeling that he knew what Marguerite had found out while spying on Her Majesty for Rochefort.

"And Lady Marguerite simply revealed all of this to you?"

"I… no. We met frequently over the last couple of weeks, but she did not come to me with this information immediately. Once I realised something was up I followed her around, bribed her maid, asked some of the other ladies to tell me who she saw." He paused. "She is not very popular at Court. Too shy and polite to fit in."

But no doubt she had been made to feel popular with Boileau. Perhaps Richelieu would have felt more sympathetic if the woman had not let herself be manipulated into acquiring and betraying secrets that could bring down the monarchy.

"I get the picture," he said. "A woman like her would seek to avoid scandal." Richelieu found he no longer cared how Boileau had found out what he did. If he was going to tell him what he suspected he would, Richelieu was ready to believe his story. For Boileau, Marguerite and Rochefort would merely have discovered what Richelieu had long accepted as the truth. 

"She realised something about her lover didn't she?" 

Boileau's expression fell, confirming all of Richelieu's fears. "Am I delivering old news, Your Eminence?"

"Say it. I want to hear it from you."

Boileau swallowed. Richelieu respected that this could not be easy for him, or for anyone in his position, considering the enormity of the crime.

"Lady Marguerite is convinced the queen is carrying on an affair with the same musketeer."

Richelieu closed his eyes. "And she told Rochefort?"

Damn the musketeers! Damn impressionable young women who had no place at Court! Damn their fright and the parents who sent them there!

"Yes."

Damn Rochefort!

But still, that it had even come this far…

"How long has Rochefort been blackmailing her?"

"A couple of months. Since before you asked me to seek her out. But she was not asked to report on the queen's relationship to the musketeer until recently."

Since before Marmion then. Before Rochefort climbed to the height of his power.

"How long did this affair last between her and Aramis?"

"She ended it a couple of days ago. Once she found out what she knew... She's feeling incredibly guilty about the affair. She seemed to long for someone to draw a confession from her." 

"No doubt she was grateful when you offered to do just that."

Boileau had the audacity to blush.

"And during all the time that Rochefort threatened her, the lady did not trust to go to her lover for because of his involvement with Her Majesty?"

Richelieu saw the young man wince at the mention of the queen. He took it as a testimony for the respect of the sanctity of her station.

"No, she didn't suspect them until recently."

Richelieu let the silence that followed Boileau's statement fill the room as he took the time to let the implications settle in his mind: _Marguerite did not trust Aramis enough to go to him for help even before any evidence against him or the queen solidified._

It struck him that Jean truly was going to hate this, if he ever learned about it. Richelieu knew his lover would sleep better without knowledge of the queen's infidelity, but at the same time Richelieu could not wait to see him take his musketeers to task for once.

_Aramis: God's gift to spies and blackmailers._

A face briefly flashed before his eyes. Frightened, accusing, framed by red hair. Skin flecked with white from the shock of being found out, pale as the snow on the ground. 

There were rules to the game of Courtly affairs. The more high-profile the players the deadlier the rules became. Aramis so far appeared fatally innocent of them, but ignorance did not prevent those rules from applying to everyone from the unattached virgin to the professional mistress. You broke them at your own risk. 

He fixed Boileau with a look.

"You're lucky you know so many useful people," he said slowly. "I believe if I were to have a chat with her it would benefit both of us greatly." 

Boileau stared, wrinkling his brow even further in confusion.

"You mean… here?"

At first, Boileau did not understand, but in the end he agreed with the cardinal's reasoning. If at all possible, Richelieu decided, it would also be his last task until he returned to Court. 

After the young man had left Richelieu called his council to decide Fauchet's fate. They were going to leave him where he was, for now, as they saw no sense in letting either him or Rochefort suspect that they knew he had been found out. They would, however, make sure that one of the Red Guards in contact with Cahusac's men was with Rochefort whenever possible in order to keep an additional eye on the Comte's movements. They also had to evaluate every bit of information they exchanged with Fauchet carefully. 

It was only during this discussion that the cardinal realised that a short while back he had ordered their traitor to keep an eye on Boileau and his interactions with Milady.

* * *

By the time Treville was back on his feet he was dying to seek out Richelieu and the answers he'd been promised. It had taken almost two weeks before he was in any shape to even consider climbing onto a horse and he was anxious to find out whether Richelieu's timetable had been correct. 

There had been messages for him, of course. In veiled words Richelieu had bemoaned the unpredictable ways of Monsieur's Court and his allies, insulted the musketeers as per usual and suggested Treville should give up on them to buy land next to one of Richelieu's favourite holdings in the countryside. 

He found himself smiling while reading each of them. In one letter Treville also learned that Captain Cahusac apparently wished to thank him for his new jewelled pocket watch and a set of decorative duelling pistols, which puzzled him. But despite the familiarity of the letters Treville could not help but feel left out of the loop; He was entirely useless while he was trapped in Paris and due to the delicate nature of the final steps of Richelieu's operation his messages turned out not particularly revealing in that regard for fear of being intercepted. 

A couple of days ago, upon being prompted, Lemay had finally admitted that he could make the journey, even though the doctor preferred him to stay put for at least another week. But by then Treville had managed to find another way to tether himself to the garrison: He had not been able to bring himself to leave now that he had finally found the courage to tell Porthos about his father.

The musketeer had not been too thrilled when Treville had revealed to him nothing more than a name and directions how to find him. Porthos' disappointed acceptance had lacerated his heart, but anything else Treville could have told him would have been poisoned by his disgust for Belgard, and his own shame. The kind of truth Porthos deserved had be unfiltered by his former captain's bias. It was up to Porthos alone to forgive or reject either of the men who had taken so much from him.

Once Porthos had left to seek out the estates that in another life would have been his inheritance, it had been Treville's duty to remain at the garrison and wait for him to return with a bag full of questions. 

In the wake of Porthos' quest had followed the case of the kidnapped girls. No matter how much Treville longed to ride out to Richeieu in order to receive some answers of his own; and no matter how much he looked forward to prove to Richelieu that he was recovered, he would have never exchanged the sight of the girls feeling safe enough to laugh again for his personal peace of mind. 

It was not until after a new, safe employ had been found for all of them, that Treville, still basking in the relief of Porthos' returned faith in him, turned his thoughts to that chateau only a couple of hours' ride away from Paris. 

After convincing himself that there was no work left to do for the day, Treville dressed, checked that his pistols were loaded, and headed for the stables. But he got no further than the steps outside his office before Bernadotte caught his attention. 

"What is it?" he asked, as the musketeer headed to meet him halfway.

"Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan report that they've been called to attend an incident at the palace. No doubt they picked up Aramis along the way."

"An incident?" Was this it? Had Armand returned already and begun to order the arrests? An undeniable tinge of disappointment coloured his excitement. He had still harboured hope of being a part of the cardinal's plans. 

"I don't know any more, I'm afraid. A messenger from Madame Bonacieux arrived for them as we were starting their patrol. I can take a squad and join them."

"No."

If Constance was asking her friends for help without sending word to the garrison for further support this was something private. Likely the matter concerned the dauphin or the queen and would not benefit from too many people becoming involved. 

"If they need reinforcements we're going to hear of it." Any hope of riding out to this evening faded as he spoke. "But it won't do any harm to be prepared."

* * *

"Rochefort knows." 

Treville felt the shock hit him like the kick of a warhorse. He had to sit down. 

_Rochefort knows._

And there was no one to stop him from removing even the queen from the king's affections once and for all, and to condemn her to an ignoble death.

_Rochefort knows._

A murderer; who was the only man in the world who has the king's ear; who steered every policy coming out of the Louvre; who had tried to force himself on the queen.

And this man knew the queen had committed treason in more than one way, and that the child the king considered his legal heir was not his son. 

And whose fault was all of this? 

Treville closed his eyes in despair. His musketeer's failings were his own.

"Then there is nothing any of us can do about it." The agony flowed into his voice as he spoke.

"There might be something."

Treville looked up as Athos spoke.

_There was! Wasn't there?_

_If only Armand found something…_

"A couple of days ago Milady approached me with an offer…"

Treville readjusted his plans as soon as Athos began to relate his tale. 

"Is she still in Paris?" 

With Rochefort accusing the queen of treason time was of the essence, especially as the written evidence of her letter to her brother could use to bring her to trial any day. Milady being right in the city and the meet-up with her not requiring hours of riding to a secluded chateau warranted postponing a visit to Richelieu yet another time.

Treville held no personal fondness for the woman whose questionable influence on the king he had been forced to witness and who had done so much to damage his musketeers in the past. But he recognised her sharp mind for the valuable asset it was: If there was anyone in Paris – in the cardinal's absence – who could wrest Rochefort's secret from him in a timely fashion it had to be Milady. And no personal grudge would stop Treville from making use of information that could potentially save the queen's life. 

Sneaking up on Milady was not amongst the actions that Treville had imagined to initiate Rochefort's fall, but knowing that they were finally moving to the attack felt satisfying nonetheless. Not even Milady's sneer could take that from him as Athos explained the situation to her. Then, curiously, she looked at Treville in surprise as she finally understood what they needed from her. But she bit her lip and did not reveal anything until they were back at the garrison.

It was just her, Athos, d'Artagnan, and him. Porthos was still busy trying to talk sense into Aramis from the looks of it and Treville was glad of it. If he were to attempt it himself there would be considerably more shouting. 

For now he was happy to shove all thoughts of Aramis and the horror of his revelations out of his mind and focus on what Milady could do for them. 

"This isn't about the Spanish letters," she said. "It's about Aramis and the queen!"

If Milady, too, already knew about it, what hope was there?

"Just think what information like this might be worth."

Treville sighed. She was posturing. She had to be. No wonder she and Armand had gotten along so well for a while. He watched d'Artagnan huff and snap at her proving every stereotype about Gascon blood Treville had ever been exposed to as a young newcomer to the city. Treville wondered whether he had ever been that hot-headed as a youth.

But Milady remained unperturbed by the outburst. "Oh, I have no loyalties to Rochefort. The man's insane."

And did that not sum him up neatly? The enormity of what he had done! Violating Her Majesty in such a manner – the idea alone was blasphemous. Yet he remained at the palace and in power while the queen was under arrest. This was no time to bicker over the price of information as Athos and d'Artagnan now started doing. 

But still Treville kept from interrupting them, just in case Milady became annoyed enough that she would reveal something she would otherwise have kept to herself. That he recognised how valuable she could be as an ally did not mean that he trusted her. 

Yet apparently she trusted _him_ as she cut to the point without having seen a single coin: 

"Rochefort is a Spanish agent."

Even though Treville was seated he could feel the floor dropping away. Rochefort, the First Minister of France, was a Spanish agent. 

The First Minister! 

Not only was the man in charge of French politics a murderer who was plotting against the queen, he was supporting their most powerful enemy. 

"Dear God."

He wanted to support d'Artagnan as he questioned her claims, but they made a frightful lot of sense: Rochefort's sudden, timely reappearance just days after the cardinal's supposed death; their extremely bad luck – but convenient for Spain – in the failed retrieval of dear de Foix, during which Rochefort had tragically been forced to shoot their only prisoner in self-defense; the misinformation rampant in the case concerning General Alaman. 

The only piece that did not fit was the murder of Perales, but Milady had the answer even to that riddle. Because she had been the one who had murdered the ambassador on Rochefort's behalf. 

Treville curbed d'Artagnan's following outrage calmly, quietly. On a subconscious level he was touched by the young musketeer's coming to his captain's defence. His own anger over the loss of his rank and position was still there, mingled with anger at himself for having let himself be manipulated so easily. But this was not the time and place to act on it. As bad as these news were, they were still no closer to knocking Rochefort off his throne. 

As d'Artagnan put it rather bluntly with his blood still up, they needed proof. 

As he voiced these thoughts out loud Milady ignored the young musketeer and addressed Treville instead:

"You should talk to our – well, to our former mutual friend more often. I already told him about Rochefort and he asked for the same thing."

Treville looked up at her, his expression for once unguarded, with the question written clear on his face. The last time the topic of Milady had come up Armand had insisted that she didn't even know he was alive.

Milady responded with an earnest mien belied by her tone: 

"He didn't tell you he hired me, did he? Nor what I found out about Rochefort's loyalties. Is he in trouble now?" 

Treville's face darkened. 

"Captain? What is she talking about?"

"Just when I thought his visit here meant everything was right between you. We met, right before—"

"It's none of your concern. Tell us what you found."

This must have been what Armand had decided to keep from him and promised to share the next time they met. It was partly Treville's fault that he hadn't yet had a chance to do so, and without doubt there was a perfectly sensible explanation for his seeking out Milady's help that Treville would hear soon enough. Milady could hardly be blamed for harbouring not too many friendly thoughts regarding the cardinal, but mentioning his visit to the garrison only strengthened Treville's faith in him. If Milady intended to rile him up she was wasting her time.

He also ignored the questioning looks of his musketeers. They were here to determine whether Milady could help them save the queen. Everything else could wait. 

Milady turned serious again: "I haven't found proof of Rochefort's treachery, yet." 

Treville shook his head, and could see d'Artagnan throwing up his hands. This was not what they needed to hear.

"I've been to Rochefort's office. I looked in all the places he likes to keep his most valued documents in. There's nothing there. Nothing from Vargas."

"There is a secret compartment in the desk." Treville found himself speaking without much emotion.

"Checked them all."

"What about the one under the floorboards?"

"The cardinal never kept anything important in there. Too obvious. Too old-fashioned."

"But this is Rochefort." Treville grimaced. "Perhaps he's a romantic?"

Milady wrinkled her nose. "Any other suggestions?" she asked.

Treville noticed that Athos had put on a carefully rehearsed non-chalant expression while d'Artagnan was staring. Treville didn't want to imagine what they must be thinking as they listened to Milady and their former captain speak of all the secret spaces in the cardinal's former office at the Louvre.

"The secret cabinet?" 

"I've wondered for a while whether you knew about that." Milady smiled. "But I doubt Rochefort does. He'd been moved to the Spanish Court before the Cardinal had it installed."

"Then all we have to present to the king is your word?" D'Artagnan was back in his element. "Pardon me, but I don't think he's going to execute Rochefort on nothing more than that. He's far more likely to hang you for slander after the way he kicked you out." 

Milady looked as she was little disturbed by d'Artagnan's statement. But then she tended to look like a woman disturbed by little in general. 

"There are still other places for me to look. Rochefort and Perales used to disappear into the cellars a lot. Unfortunately that's a rather large area to cover. I have been trying to make Rochefort slip up, a word, just a look hinting in the right direction – he thinks me beneath him, so he's bound to lose caution eventually, like most men do, but so far he's been careful."

Treville shook his head again. "We're assuming there even is anything for you to find." With every moment the tasked seemed ever more impossible. "If Rochefort and Vargas actually do communicate through letters and if Rochefort didn't burn them all." He sighed. "Not even Rochefort would be so foolish as to keep incriminating orders around."

"Unless he still needs them for something."

"For what?" D'Artagnan was not convinced. 

"Insurance?" She fixed her gaze back onto Treville. "To keep Vargas from abandoning him like Richelieu did."

"If you know something just speak."

"I do think there may be something written down." Her hand went to loosen her corsage. "I may not have found any correspondence conveniently signed and sealed by Vargas but I found this." She produced an envelope out of her clothes and waved it at Treville. There was a stain on the paper as if a wax seal had been pried cleanly off. "I was going to give it to our young Romeo to pass it on, but I might as well hand it to you."

Treville ignored the bafflement that returned to his musketeers as he took the letter. As he unfolded it, he frowned. 

"Might be in Vargas' hand, might not. I don't read Spanish very well, but it's not about Rochefort. It's about our other friend. He told you about him, at least?"

There was no need to ask who Milady was alluding to. His name stood out among the foreign words: _Fauchet._

"Captain?" D'Artagnan was beginning to sound disturbed. He had a right to. It had to look like Treville and Milady were having these kinds of chats on a regular basis. And how did their captain come to be so well informed about the late cardinal's furniture? 

"What is she talking about and what does it have to do with Rochefort?"

Treville had resolved to bring in the cardinal before Athos had mentioned Milady, but breaking the truth to his musketeers would not be easy and he did not want to waste any more time on lengthy explanations. 

"There is another man who is aiming to bring down Rochefort. He can get through to the king if we can provide the evidence." 

"Are you sure?"

"The king will listen to him." _If only out of curiosity about how he survived and a deep disappointment that he never wrote._

D'Artagnan looked as if he was going to question him further, but Athos, reading the situation correctly, interrupted him: "But first we have to find evidence."

Milady looked at Athos and Treville. "I'll keep looking. Rochefort believes I'm working for him, so I can still get into the palace."

Athos stepped forward. "I can come with her."

"For my protection or supervision?" 

Athos gave her one of his special looks. 

Treville ignored them both. 

"Very good, but our priority should be getting the queen to safety, away from Rochefort."

There was no more disagreement.

As Athos and d'Artagnan rushed to collect Aramis and Porthos and saddle their horses Treville held Milady back. She tossed her head as she faced him, but there was tension around her eyes. 

"Yes?"

"You must truly hate Rochefort to prefer aiding the cardinal."

Milady shrugged. "It's like they say: better the devil you know. Besides, Richelieu pays better." But instead of relaxing she looked away, out of the window and into the courtyard where the musketeers were preparing their horses. 

Treville remained silent, waiting for her to specify what she meant, but her words remained cryptic: "To be worth so much trouble to a man..." She tore her eyes away from the musketeers and turned back to Treville with a sigh. 

Her eyes narrowed. "How is your wound? Is it healing well?"

"What are you trying to imply?"

"Well." The contemplative look disappeared and once again she looked like a woman bothered by very little. "We can't have you collapse a mile out of Paris."

"I'll make it." He had not called her back to exchange sentimentalities. "Coming to Athos first with your offer does you credit, whatever he might say. If you find something substantial that will help us, I'll be grateful." He fixed her with a cool gaze. "But if you do anything to sabotage our mission, or the cardinal's, my goodwill to you will be at an end."

"Of course." Milady's face took on a look of round-eyed innocence that did not suit her. "I never dreamed of it." She paused. "And if I sabotage Athos?"

There was no need to ask what she meant. Athos' behaviour towards her changed in stages recently. From mellow to aggressive he was working through a complex spectrum of emotions that could not be easy to handle for someone as withdrawn as him. 

"Be careful," Treville said. "We're on the same side for now. Don’t make me come after you." He nodded at the courtyard. "Or them."

"I'll keep it in mind. Shall we go then?"

* * *

Richelieu was dictating the final lines for their template to Charpentier and caught himself smiling. It was not just the thought of his revenge being so close that raised his spirits – although he looked forward to being able visit the miscreants in the Bastille for their confession once they were locked up. No doubt his next conversation with Monsieur would turn out stimulating. But mostly he looked forward to returning to Paris, to once more take the reigns. He could already see the courtiers' astonished faces in his mind. And he looked forward to compensating Treville for his long absence. 

But the feeling only lasted until Cahusac burst into the office without knocking. 

"There are riders approaching."

The outright manner in which his captain had cut to the point without even apologising for the interruption and the fact that the cardinal had ordered Cahusac and le Masle to deal with all arrivals on their own while he was busy told Richelieu that he was not going to enjoy any bit of the news that would follow.

* * *

The waiting had been the hardest part. All manner of things might have gone wrong while the musketeers were in the palace. They could have been captured, killed. But someone needed to wait with the horses and smuggling four musketeers into the palace was going to be work enough for Milady. Especially since Treville was not very welcome at the palace while the king held him in disgrace. 

It was not until they were galloping away from Paris, the horses' hooves eating up the ground under them at breakneck speed, that Treville felt calm again. The horizon – wide now that they were out of the city – and the rushing air cleared his head. They were moving. They were acting. They were no longer just pawns on Rochefort's board. They would take control of the game and return only to attack. 

But this freeing feeling could not last. Eventually they slowed down to a trot, the horses snorting and steaming. They had to grant their mounts a change of pace now and then if the wanted to get anywhere fast. 

As soon as he reined in his horse, Treville saw d'Artagnan ride up to him. 

"Where're we headed?"

Treville pulled sharply on the reins. 

It was time. 

He had told them they were headed towards the safest place in France, but considering the history they shared with the man they would find there they deserved to know more than that. 

The other musketeers moved closer. D'Artagnan had taken the lead of their little group, with Porthos bringing up the rear. Athos had stayed behind to offer his support to Milady. After all, they still needed whatever proof Milady might unearth about Rochefort's connection to Vargas.

"Why are we stopping? There may be pursuers." It was Aramis who spoke, the queen coming to a halt by his side, looking rightfully worried. Not even the colour that an hour's ride had put onto her face could cover her turmoil. 

"What is it, Captain?" 

After all this time she still addressed him by his former rank. He had expected his musketeers to show this kind of sentimentality, but, despite what he had learned about her rash decisions so recently, from the mouth of the queen it was the highest honour. It spoke of a respect and trust Treville could only hope he still deserved.

"It is time I told you where we're headed."

"As long as it gives us the distance and time to regroup and deal with Rochefort I trust your judgement."

It was said kindly, but it did not help lift the grim expression that had taken hold of Treville's face. 

"I told d'Artagnan and Athos there's a man who also wishes to see Rochefort removed, and who is searching for proof of his treason; someone who the king will believe over Rochefort's lies."

"And we're going to see this person?" The queen wrinkled her brow. Even she could not think of a single person who still had that power. "Who?"

Treville hesitated, but not for long. The queen did not deserve to learn where he was leading her only once it was too late for her to decline to follow. 

Whatever had happened between her and Aramis to lead to this point she was still the queen.

"Cardinal Richelieu."

Three faces twisted in shock and outrage. Porthos just closed his eyes. 

"Him?" The queen's expression was frozen in betrayal.

"But he died!" D'Artagnan cried in disbelief. "He's dead and buried!"

"He's alive. Someone poisoned him, so he disappeared to investigate the people responsible."

"He tried to kill her!"

Despite everything Aramis' look of betrayal was the worst. Almost two years ago now Treville had promised himself he would never see it again. He should have known better. Being a commander and complete honesty never mix. 

"I remember, Aramis. I was there."

He did not attempt to keep any of the bitterness out of his voice that welled up at the thought. The events back then had opened up a rift between him and the cardinal that at the time he had not been sure they would ever manage to bridge. He was happy they had managed to come to an accord and build up their trust anew, but he did not regret their initial falling out. Some plants grew up stronger for the scattered ashes of their predecessors fertilising the ground.

"Then why—"

"He explained himself." It was the queen who spoke. She swallowed. "In the months between our foiling his conspiracy and his— his disappearance he proved nothing but loyal to the crown."

"But not to you." A freshly whelped puppy could not look more confused than Aramis did in that moment. "You— You've forgiven him?"

"How could I forgive him? But I've pardoned him. For the sake of my husband. For the future he was going to build for my son." She squared her jaw. Any tears of shock that had formed in her eyes hardened her gaze to crystal: "Now he and I must show we both meant our promise." Accused and humiliated by her advisor, threatened, mocked, expelled, and a fugitive in her own country, the queen looked each of the men in the eye. "If I must to go to my old enemy to defeat my old friend, I will. I am still queen and I will take this kingdom back."


	9. Those Who Hunger, part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just warning you ahead that Richelieu has little reason to be fond of Aramis at this point and since this is the cardinal's story rather than the musketeers' it's going to show.
> 
> This chapter took a while, but it's also a bit longer than the others, so that's something – hopefully.

Despite his low opinion of the sinful frivolity of life at Court Alphonse de Richelieu rushed to receive his queen in the court of his humble chateau. He had to be mortified that she was accompanied by musketeers only, and scandalised at the thought that the queen would have to remain without suitable female company during her stay. 

His younger brother struggled with his own mortification, since it was obvious that Treville had brought her to see him. What had the man been thinking? What could possibly have happened that warranted this invasion? Surely Treville would not have compromised his position for anything short of treason? These questions went through his mind in a loop while he walked down the halls to meet the newly arrived party. Any minute now he would learn of the details. For even when pretending to be dead you did not keep a queen waiting. 

For this meeting they were using a far statelier setting than the spartan study that had been reserved for Richelieu's private visitors until now. Even if the cardinal had known of this visit in advance to prepare for it, it would have been impossible to convince Alphonse that the Queen of France warranted any other setting than the main audience hall. As the hall was located in the main wing and amply lit by large, high windows it was only too well that Alphonse did not expect any other visitors this day. 

When Richelieu entered the room the queen and her musketeers were already inside. A fire had only just been started.

Their stares followed the cardinal's every movement as he bowed.

Queen Anne sat in quite possibly the only cushioned chair Alphonse owned, surrounded by her musketeers. But Richelieu's eyes immediately sought out Treville. He looked healthy enough and Richelieu drew fresh breath at the sight. The former captain of the king's musketeers hung slightly back, standing behind Her Majesty, and his face gave no clue as to what had transpired to bring them here, but Richelieu still recognised the tenseness of his stance.

He managed to prise his eyes away and to address the queen just in time for his behaviour to be still considered polite and proper. "Your Majesty."

The queen nodded at him. "Cardinal." Her face might have been hewn out of stone. It was hard to gauge her thoughts, but she was not smiling.

Richelieu, however, tried for a disarming smile. "To what fortunate incident do I owe the great honour of your visit?"

Of course he was aware that no incident forcing her to seek him out could possibly be called fortunate, but considering the unusual circumstances politeness appeared to be the safest choice.

"I'm surprised that for once you shouldn't know already."

"I'm but a man. I too can be caught unawares."

"I realised." The statement did not lighten up her stony mien. She did not feel the need to point out that she herself had caught him flatfooted once before with the help of the same musketeers present. She did not gloat. It was one of the many traits about her he might have admired more readily if God had not set them to be opponents.

Richelieu watched her draw herself up in her seat. She looked composed despite having arrived on horseback, apparently in dire need of his advice; her voice was steady a she spoke, but what she said still made Richelieu's spine shiver. 

He had hoped it would something else. Anything else. Something he could solve from a distance. Like England sponsoring another Huguenot uprising, or the Spanish Netherlands sinking into the North Sea. 

"I was told you could bring down Rochefort."

Richelieu sucked in a deep breath. He had told Treville that he would do it soon, but not _this soon_. He would have combined it with his return: Implicating Rochefort in his poisoning while convincing the King to arrest Gaston's allies and reinstating Richelieu as First Minister at the same time. The Lord Keeper's unexpected holiday and another key secretary of state who he had meant to implicate being out of town, forced him to delay.

"In time," he said, but he could immediately tell it was not enough. Despair ran down his spine like ice. "A coup like this takes planning."

"We were made to believe you had the plan!" The young musketeer he recognised as d'Artagnan threw up his hands. The rest of them simply huffed.

"I am sorry, but I need more time."

"The situation has changed." It was Treville who spoke up. "There is no more time."

With growing horror Richelieu listened to the musketeers recounting the attack on the queen and the charge of treason that followed, backed by the letter to her brother. The queen herself remained unmoved throughout all of this. She appeared preoccupied with her own thoughts, looking up from time to time to study Richelieu's face.

Meanwhile the cardinal cursed the fact that he had to learn all of this from the musketeers. But not as much as the fact that Rochefort could not simply have waited another week before attempting something this audacious. It would all have been so easy then. 

But this, this demanded his attention, now, when he was not yet ready. He couldn't possibly move yet. Everything would be for naught. Months wasted! Him rotting away in this chateau while Rochefort tore down everything he had carefully built up. So many favours called in, so many lies told, so much hurt done to Treville. 

"There's more." 

As Treville spoke Richelieu could feel his schemes blowing away from him like sand.

"Milady told us Rochefort's a Spanish agent."

Richelieu took a step back.

First of all, what was Milady doing hanging around Treville? And secondly, he had hoped to be the one to reveal this fact to Treville privately. But now the cat was out of the bag and there was nothing much for Richelieu to say but "I know."

Treville took it in without beating an eyelash.

"Of course he does." D'Artagnan crossed his arms in front of his chest and Porthos joined him in shaking his head. It was Aramis who exploded.

"You knew! You knew the First Minister of France was a Spanish agent and yet you were content to remain here, in hiding, while Rochefort dared to lay hands on the queen!" Aramis steamed as he took a step towards the cardinal. The rush of his anger made Richelieu take another step back. "And now you don't even have a plan to get rid of him?" 

"Aramis!" Treville came to his defence with a battlefield shout. 

But the soldier turned on his former captain: "You shouldn't have taken us here. I'm sorry, and with all my respect, but what possessed you to think he would help us?"

Even the queen looked taken aback.

"Aramis!" 

He turned towards her: " _He_ planned to have you murdered!"

Treville grabbed Aramis by the shoulders and made him face him. "Enough!" He shoved the man away from queen and cardinal. 

"Lately the cardinal has been spending far more thought on the queen's safety than you ever did!"

Aramis' face, already red from shouting, turned even darker. Richelieu felt his breath catch in his throat as he watched.

But at this point Porthos stepped in, putting a heavy, calming hand on Aramis' shoulder. 

"Leave it."

For a moment Aramis continued to look rebellious. But then he turned his head to face Porthos and stepped back into line.

As Aramis took a deep breath so did Richelieu.

"He's right, you know?" D'Artagnan sounded annoyed as he addressed his friend. "Remember what else Rochefort knows." 

Aramis made a noise between a grunt and a howl: "Don’t tell _him_!"

But there was no need to. Treville's accusation and the way the queen pointedly stared at nothing told Richelieu everything he needed to know. 

"Pardon me," he said, slipping the sarcasm on like a favourite glove. "But it seems there is no need for this hostility from you, Aramis. I believe we've both committed high treason at least once by now." 

The scene before him froze. All eyes turned back onto Richelieu. 

"The Dauphin is not the king's son, and apparently Rochefort knows."

He heard Treville groan: "Is there anyone who doesn't know?"

"The king, I presume."

He felt sorry for Treville's anguish, and even for the queen feeling so hard-pressed as to come to her former enemy for help. But Richelieu would not stand to be insulted by Aramis who had caused him so much pain in the past, and who might even now be the reason for this operation failing. The operation he had risked so much for. The one his confidants had given up their positions and homes for in order to be by his side. The one they had abandoned their families for, and for which they had put their lives on hold. The one for which Richelieu had made Treville believe he had lost him, and the one for which Brèves and Passerat had given their lives. 

For, regardless of their sacrifice, the queen being threatened by Rochefort was of greater importance than this operation. The Dauphin's heritage being publicly revealed, threatening the queen with charges that could only be punished by death, was more important. The righteous outrage of her house and a possible casus belli for Spain was more important. All of it called the cardinal back to Paris, to the side of his king.

What was not important to him was how Aramis felt having his misdeeds pointed out to him.

D'Artagnan was the first to break the silence: "None of this matters! We have to stop Rochefort before he can tell anyone. Or we have to be able to discredit every word he speaks if he's already done so."

"Exactly." 

"If you won't help us, we're wasting our time here," Aramis continued. "Rochefort is the one we need to stop."

Richelieu snorted at him. "Yes. How dare he tell the truth about you?"

This time it was Treville who placed a comforting hand on Aramis' shoulder.

"He did lie about the letter to King Philip," he said. "Rochefort wouldn't admit that he had pressured Her Majesty into writing it. She was acting to protect the Dauphin's rule."

Richelieu could not deny that she had been right to be concerned. In the event of the king's death, taking advantage of the new King of France still being a baby, attempting to take power as regent by displacing the queen and forcing his own policies over those of more reasonable advisors did sound like something Louis' brother would do. Trying to protect herself against this eventuality had been a wise move. Only she had gone about in entirely the wrong fashion, relying on the advice of a man she had believed to be one of her oldest and dearest friends, but who really sought her doom.

"The human problem," Richelieu concluded. "If only we did not form attachments on Earth, we'd all be less vulnerable – and so much poorer in spirit."

Richelieu paced, purposefully looking at no one. For the moment none of them interrupted him.

"But at least we agree on one thing: Rochefort needs to go."

"How do we know you won't use your knowledge about the Dauphin to your own advantage?" 

"Aramis!" Treville had lowered his voice into a hiss of warning.

"You don't," Richelieu said. "For once you will have to trust me."

The musketeer did not look at all satisfied with this response. 

"But don't worry about me. So far you have been succeeding far better where I mercifully failed."

"Armand!"

Richelieu knew he had crossed a line then. They usually were careful to avoid calling each other by their given names in public. Now Treville looked as livid with him as he had with Aramis a minute ago.

As did the queen:

"Cardinal, your accusations are uncalled for. You might as well accuse me of attempting suicide."

"I beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty. It was never my intention to offend you. Merely—"

But Queen Anne would not hear of it: "While we fight amongst ourselves, Rochefort's power grows. Assigning blame for what lies in the past does not help us protect the king and the Dauphin from his influence." She paused, and collected her hands in her lap, but her voice was still one of regal steel as she continued: "Do you have the means to remove Rochefort from my husband's side, Cardinal, and are you willing to aid us, or not?"

"Yes."

Another pause followed in which breath held was released. 

"Then we stay, and you tell us what you have in mind."

"Wait!" Aramis looked alarmed at the direction events had taken. "Your Majesty; Captain. Forgive me, but," he turned towards Richelieu. "How do you know about this? About me? About the Dauphin?" He looked back at the queen briefly and swallowed. "If there's someone else, someone who told you, someone else who knows, she won't be safe even if we take down Rochefort."

Richelieu caught and held his gaze. The desperate look in the musketeer's eyes would soon get wider.

"I learned about your transgressions from the same source Rochefort did: the Dauphin's governess."

"Marguerite?" The queen stiffened in her seat. "Why would she betray me?"

A feeling of satisfaction settled over Richelieu when he answered. Perhaps a different man would have felt embarrassed about it. "Rochefort is blackmailing her with his knowledge of her affair with the musketeer Aramis."

The queen opened her mouth, but words failed her. She turned to Aramis, her eyes perfectly round.

Richelieu had no time to relish the musketeer's pained expression, as Treville grabbed him by the arm and pulled him towards the door he had entered through a quarter of an hour before.

"A private word with you, _Cardinal_." 

He stumbled after Treville, turning his head back to see Aramis and the queen regarding each other in stunned silence. He missed whatever happened next for they were out of the room, and back in the hall. Treville, still dragging the cardinal after him, opened the nearest door, but immediately closed it when he found it led to a storage space currently being inspected by a pair of Red Guards. 

Richelieu took him by the hand and led him further down the hall instead, to a neat sitting room, filled with angular, lacquered wooden furniture that could make a back hurt just from looking at it. They did not sit down. 

"What are you doing?" Treville started before Richelieu even had a chance to close the door. His face reddened with anger. "Her Majesty did have a point there, about not fighting amongst ourselves. Were you not listening?"

Richelieu took a moment to straighten his clothes and take a deep breath, before he attempted his defence.

"Forgive me, but am I wrong? Did I tell lies?"

"You humiliated the queen!" 

Treville was fuming. Richelieu made sure to remain still.

"My only thought was that if she learned what her lover had been up to, she might discourage him from such behaviour in the future."

"But not in front of her subjects!" Treville raised one hand to his forehead and started pacing – probably to stop himself from turning his energies towards a more destructive aim.

"Aramis is at the root of these troubles," Richelieu continued. "He ruined the Dauphin's young governess and made her vulnerable to Rochefort's blackmail."

"I'm sure you're extremely offended on her behalf."

"This is not about any moral high ground," Richelieu said, prompting Treville to roll his eyes. "I don't particularly wish to care about who your musketeers are hurting with their courting habits, but Aramis tends to make extremely poor choices." 

Treville stopped pacing in order to fix him with a fiery stare. "What good does assigning blame do us at this moment?"

"None." Richelieu wrung his hands, casting his gaze toward the panelled ceiling as if in need of divine support. "That's the problem. It's too late to stop him from doing any of these things. But we should be stopping him – any musketeer – from doing anything like it ever again. Why are we wasting our time protecting this monarchy – this God given monarchy – if not even the guards respect it?" 

Not taken in by his argument, Treville bared his teeth. "Aramis is my business. I told you, after Savoy, after Milady—" His voice rose with every word. He walked up to Richelieu until their faces were only inches apart. "Only _I_ take care of my musketeers!" 

Richelieu lifted his hands, palms out, but not giving in. "This is bigger than one soldier. This man committed high treason! We can't let him be put on trial for obvious reasons, but if you won't bring him to heel, I will."

They were standing so close Richelieu could see Treville's eyes widen in shock and then harden to ice.

Richelieu pressed his own eyes closed for a moment. 

Finally Aramis' indiscretions had come to take their toll, but not just on the musketeer. If, in the end, Richelieu was forced to throw away his work of the recent months, and it turned out he had wasted time, resources, lives, it was comforting to at least be able to have someone to blame. It was comforting to know his indignation was righteous. It was this indignation that screamed at him, telling him that he was not overreacting, that he was in the right.

But his indignation was not bigger or more important than his respect for Treville or the promises they had made to each other.

This had been one of the most important rules they had set when they had begun to rebuild after Richelieu's ill considered conspiracy against the queen: He would leave any and all grievances he had with the musketeers to Treville.

He breathed in deeply. When he opened his eyes again he saw Treville before him, trembling with rage and hurt.

Richelieu swallowed.

"It's not that I doubt your men as a fighting force," he said, glad the musketeers at least had that to recommend them, "merely as responsible adults."

Treville bit his lip, clearly thinking better of saying whatever he'd meant to say. 

"Armand, any criticism of my men is a criticism of me as a commander."

Richelieu kept his voice low. "This is about _one man_ , and nothing about it has to do with his duties as a musketeer." 

Treville looked away briefly, frowning, but Richelieu could see him calm down. 

"Aramis simply is not very subtle," he continued, easily slipping into a neutral tone practiced by having to deal with the mood swings of a monarch of Louis' cut on a regular basis. "If he can't let go of whatever he thinks he feels for the queen it will only be a question of time until someone else suspects."

He fell silent, watching Treville's face. The musketeer was thinking.

"How long have you known about them?" he asked, eventually. "I don't doubt your spies told you about Marguerite recently, but how long have _you_ known?"

"Since about the time the queen announced her pregnancy."

Treville shut his eyes.

"Dear God."

He seemed to shrink before Richelieu's eyes as his anger folded in on itself. 

"You see the problem?"

Treville let out a breath heavy with frustration. "Aramis endangered the queen and his son." Treville's gaze had softened again. "The queen faces execution if we can't stop Rochefort and heaven knows what he'll do to the Dauphin once he manages to convince the king of the child's true parentage." He looked into Richelieu's eyes. "Don't you think this is enough to clear a man's head of fancy?"

Richelieu hesitated to respond. Treville did not need to know the lengths the cardinal would go to protect him from anyone ever threatening to betray their secret. Staying away from Treville was not among these options. But he did not plan on telling him any of that. As it was, Treville found enough reasons to be upset with him all by himself.

"I'll let you deal with him."

"I'm not asking for more," Treville said, his voice now as soft as his gaze, and Richelieu found himself sending him a pleading look. 

Treville did not leave him wanting and tilted up his face for a kiss. 

Richelieu had intended for it to be a short brush of lips, perhaps a nip of teeth. But instead Treville leaned against him, sneaked his tongue into his mouth while his hands held the sides of Richelieu's face, and the cardinal's own hands somehow ended up resting at the back of Treville's neck and the base of his spine respectively. 

"Are you well?" he asked once Treville released him. 

Treville threw him a wry look. "With the First Minister being a Spanish spy and our queen accused of treason? No, but if you're asking about my wound it hasn't given me too much trouble on the ride here."

Richelieu sighed. 

"I'm glad."

There was no need for him to be more explicit about it. Treville's injury had been on his mind constantly over the preceding days. But then, Treville had never been far from his thoughts during any of the long months Richelieu had been away from Paris. 

When he was not around he tended to occupy Richelieu's thoughts in all kinds of different manners, and when he was around, Treville's presence brightened his mood, vitalised his mind, lit up his soul, and any other number of clichés.

Richelieu was convinced they were not just being two jaded old men who shared the heaviest duties in the kingdom and the worries connected to them, as well as certain, singular tastes. It was not just convenience, or lust or habit, or even fondness or respect or admiration that bound Richelieu to Treville now. It was the sort of sentiment he had believed he would have to give up in his line of work back when he had been younger, and an unfathomable amount more naïve. 

His fellow men of God in Rome as well as court society had long since taught him otherwise. And even if this was not how pious people like Alphonse, who thought in straight lines and lacked greater imagination, felt the world should be, Richelieu knew he was damned for plenty of other reasons already. Like having to prevent a bad man from telling the truth about a good woman. 

And Treville was here to remind him of this task:

"Milady handed me something for you."

Richelieu grunted when Treville straightened and stepped out his embrace. But then he was handed an envelope and anticipation subsumed all other thoughts. He remained quiet for a while as he read, until something prompted him to suck in air sharply.

"Did you read these?"

Treville stepped closer to look over his shoulder. "They're in Spanish." 

"They're notes on Fauchet," Richelieu explained.

"His elder brother."

Richelieu furled his brow and looked at Treville. "I didn't know you read Spanish?" He had always considered Treville to be hopeless with languages. His Italian was barely passable and his attempts at German atrocious. Sometimes he was amazed that the boy from Gascony had ever managed to learn proper French. He did not even speak with an accent – most of the time; unless he got really excited in a state Richelieu usually took him to bed for.

"The name's still French," Treville pointed out, and Richelieu rolled his eyes, but in a fond way. 

"What does it say?"

"A lot." Richelieu licked his lips. "Once I'm back in my old office someone will have to dig through a certain stack of files on the siege of La Rochelle. It looks like our Fauchet's brother was less patriotic than his heroic death during the siege implied. " 

Treville leaned his head on Richelieu's shoulder and groaned. "Is anyone not a Spanish spy?"

The cardinal smiled at him in sympathy. 

"Our most Catholic neighbours had to show their support against the Huguenots during the siege, of course. But that doesn't mean they wouldn't have loved the siege to continue for far longer than it did, since it did such a fine work binding up our troops. Well, and if La Rochelle had held out, it would have set an example for other protestant cities in France to rise up." His expression darkened. "Whatever the elder Fauchet's true task was, it must be assumed that the Huguenot sharpshooter who put a musket ball through his skull on that day did us a favour." 

Treville nodded grimly. "So this might be what Rochefort has on your man?"

Richelieu nodded. "I'm afraid we weren't Catholic enough for his brother." 

He folded up the papers and replaced them in the envelope, making a mental note to hand it to one of his secretaries for safekeeping. "And now, if it were ever come to light that he was in the service of Spain at such a crucial time the family's reputation would be ruined." And with the reputation went the whole family. At the Parisian Court it did not matter how old your name was if it wasn't in favour with the Royals and therefore fashionable. 

"While it doesn't connect Rochefort to Vargas directly," he continued, "the fact that he had these papers at all and is apparently using them to blackmail Fauchet into doing his bidding is a clue."

Treville looked ever more tired as he listened.

"This is what you wouldn't tell me at the garrison?" he said. "That the bloody First Minister of France was a Spanish agent?"

Shaking his head he dropped into one of the uncomfortable looking chairs, looking shot. 

"It would have done you no good to know."

"A Spanish agent has been directing our politics for weeks, while I was unaware, doing nothing!"

"There wasn't anything you could have done in your position. I told you I would take care of him." He tried to sound comforting, but didn't seem to be any good at it, since Treville snorted at him.

"Once you're done here, I know. But what did you do about him in the meantime? He attacked the queen! And now he's accusing her of treason!"

"I didn't foresee that I'll admit." Richelieu walked to him and placed his hands on the back of his chair. "He was so very protective of her when they were young, and Vargas allowing his king's sister to come to harm is against his style."

"I don't think even Vargas can control him."

 _It's what he gets for picking up other people's toys_ , thought Richelieu. "Unfortunately, in this case we can't wait until he realises his mistake."

"Just tell me there isn't anything else I don't know, please."

"You know about Rochefort, you know about Gaston, you know about the Dauphin. I believe that's all." 

It was still an impressive list. Treville sighed.

"I actually forgot about Gaston during all of this. What are you going to do now?"

"Adjust my plans," he smiled a joyless smile: "Accuse Rochefort of aiding in my poisoning and being a spy in front of the king."

Treville looked up at him, frowning.

"What is your plan for confronting the king? He's going to feel betrayed." 

_Just as you did._ Richelieu touched Treville's shoulder. 

"It will pass."

"Louis was devastated when you died. He cried through the entire mass." Treville grimaced and Richelieu looked away, giving Treville the time to wrestle the memories.

"Even you forgave me in the end." 

"If you ever do it again I'm going to shoot you."

Richelieu would not blame him. The next time he would have to tell Treville from the start. 

Next time. 

His plans for France might not survive a next time. A next time distinctly was the last thing he wanted. But with Rochefort forcing his hand… if too many of Gaston's supporter remained unchecked, the next attempt on his life would not take long to follow.

"Are you certain about this?" Treville drew him out of his thoughts after a pause. "Wasn't it you who told me Louis likes playing the unforgiving?"

Richelieu hesitated while he reorganised his thoughts.

"He will have a much better target for his disappointment once he learns about Rochefort."

"Milady hasn't found any solid proof of his involvement with Vargas yet. I left her to return to the palace with Athos."

 _Athos?_ Richelieu did not allow himself time to chase the thought. Rochefort was the problem at hand here, not Milady. He was surprised she had even stuck around long enough to help them as much as she did by procuring the notes on Fauchet's brother. 

But there was no sense in hoping she would turn up with something new within the next couple of hours when they needed to come up with a working strategy _now_.

"If we don't have it we're going to fabricate it." The musketeer reached for the hand that lay on his shoulder and placed his own on top of it. 

At a different point in their relationship Richelieu might have worried about Treville taking the call for deceit badly, but of course, it was much easier than surrendering your soldiers' position to Savoy, or ordering your oldest friend to be killed rather than captured. 

"Whatever you and your scribes come up with will do you the job beautifully. I'm sure."

"Rochefort will have no holds left to cling through once I'm through with him."

"Then perhaps we should rejoin the others and tell the queen."

Richelieu grunted. "What are the odds of them having killed Aramis by now?"

Treville's only reply was to shoot him a black look.

Together they returned to the hall where they encountered d'Artagnan and Porthos standing in front of the double doors, looking more awkward and out of place rather than a pair of guards used to waiting in front of closed doors. 

They knocked prudently before they all four entered. Whatever had happened behind those doors while they were gone, Anne had no trouble taking up her regal role immediately. Still – or again – seated, she looked at them demandingly.

It was Treville who responded: "His Eminence understands the gravity of the situation and will keep himself to comments that will aid our goal of disposing Rochefort."

An annoyed expression flashed over Richelieu's face, but he replaced it immediately with a compliant smile.

"I'm glad to hear of it," the queen said. "What do you propose, Cardinal?"

He asked them to listen first. He had the musketeers arrange the seating around a low table that was normally kept at the side of hall, and had the queen bid them all sit down. Once he had their attention he told them what he was doing here, at his brother's chateau. He told them of why he had let the king and his court believe he was dead. He told them of Gaston and even the musketeers seemed to understand the dangerous implications of the king's rebellious brother being involved.

"I want to see another civil war shake this country as little as either of you do, I presume", he continued. Not even Aramis thought to protest this time. "In front of the king, I will claim Rochefort had been involved in my poisoning on behalf of the Spanish spymaster instead of His Highness."

"And the king will believe you?" D'Artagnan cut it. It was not the first time Richelieu noted that the boy was sharp. "Without further proof?" 

"That is what I originally hired Milady to provide." Richelieu made no attempt to keep the edge out of his voice as he responded. "The majority of my agents were busy with the matters I retreated here for."

"So this plan of yours isn't actually final?"

"You asked for a proposal. Believe it or not, but I asked you to this table to hear your thoughts." He looked around the table. "Of all of you."

He straightened in his seat. "Anything else we're missing we can produce. I've acquired Rochefort's own seal, and my chief secretary can forge his hand. We already tested this to satisfaction."

The queen pursed her lips, thoughtful. 

"How long will that take?" 

"Give us a day and even Rochefort won't be able to tell you he didn't write it."

"A day? It seems so long."

"You got anything else on him we can use?" asked Porthos. "No connection to Vargas, just anything?" 

Richelieu sighed. "Rochefort was in my service for a few years. But despite his obvious flaws, he acted ultimately in service of the French Crown."

Treville caught his gaze. "There was a reason you abandoned him in Spain, remember?" 

"I don't keep a paper trail of failures carried out on my behalf!"

"You must have known you'd have to get rid of him someday."

"I did! I let the Spanish know he was my spy."

Treville sat back at a loss, but not quite as lost as Richelieu felt.

"There's nothing that would discredit him to our side?"

"Why would I be paying Milady if I had? I don't keep evidence of my agents' violent transgressions." He snorted in self-disgust. "It doesn't cast too good a light on the employer."

He ignored the looks that passed between the musketeers. 

"Why don't we abandon this whole scheme and go hunting for the head of the snake." Once again d'Artagnan was the first to speak up. "If Vargas is responsible for Rochefort then we could use their connection to lure him out."

Aramis agreed: "If we can get Vargas to the palace, the king will certainly believe Rochefort's a spy." 

"As much as I would appreciate humiliating Vargas like that, he's also hours and hours away. In that time who knows what damage Rochefort might do in his rage over losing the queen." He paused. "Or what people he might lash out against to draw you out."

"Constance!"

"Calm, d'Artagnan." Treville threw out an arm that did not reach the musketeer across the table, but got him to sit down again. "We can't return without a plan."

"But this is exactly the thing Rochefort would do! And we're sitting here and still don't know what to do!"

Unfortunately, Richelieu had to agree with the young musketeer. Anyone close to the queen and her loyal musketeers would be a prime target. If the musketeers did not want to see any of their friends hurt, wasting more time by going after Vargas was out of the question. But before the conversation could escalate further one thought struck him and took hold: 

"There is no proof Rochefort is a Spanish spy, but there is proof Rochefort is _a_ spy; my spy. If nothing else it will give credit to my judgement of his character."

"It will at least help us get him arrested. After that, your man can still forge whatever else we need once Rochefort has been safely confined."

"What kind of proof are we talking about?"

"There is still some documentation of the work Rochefort did for me. Small things. If it's still there, it'll be back in one of the archives in the Palais Cardinal."

He had built the Palais Cardinal from his own income over the last decade. After his supposed death he had been able to keep it in his family for the first couple months – his misplaced will had been of some help – but recently it had passed into the possession of the crown. It made sense, considering the Red Guard was still stationed there. Luckily Rochefort stayed at the palace, but his promotion to head of the Red Guard still meant he had had access to some of the offices located in the Palais. Richelieu doubted his former spy had stayed out of his private quarters. His one hope was that the man had found none of his secret storage spaces.

"That's ideal then. We can collect it on our way to the palace." The Louvre was only a short ride away. 

"It still won't hold up," d'Artagnan interrupted. "Rochefort was still imprisoned when you got poisoned. We were the ones who rescued him and the king knows it." 

Richelieu contemplated this for a moment. "Did you drag him from a rack in a damp, dark prison cell?"

"No, but—"

"Then there is no reason for the king to believe that the Comte's imprisonment and abuse had not been a sham from the moment he switched sides. And clearly, before he pretended to release him to be found by you, the king's loyal subjects, Vargas used Rochefort's inside knowledge of the workings at the Palais Cardinal to arrange the poisoning."

"Knowledge which he gained when he was your spy."

"Precisely."

"That would have taken some amazing timing," Porthos said, scepticism evident in his voice.

"As amazing as the timing of Rochefort's return to court was, right after the position of First Minister had been vacated and court had been thrown into turmoil by my untimely demise." He paused to let his argument sink in. "Amazingly convenient for the Spanish, don't you think?"

The queen cleared her throat and held his gaze as he looked up. "If you hadn’t told me it was Gaston who poisoned you, even I could believe it."

Richelieu turned a kind look to her. She could not be too happy about learning that her birth country, under the rule of her brother sent a spy to infiltrate her court, who ended up betraying her personally in such a disgusting manner.

"I do believe they seized the chance to return him to Paris once they heard of my death. But my poisoning truly was one of the prince's lamentable ideas."

"So, in the end, Rochefort's attack on me simply fits into your plan to revenge yourself on Gaston." 

She dropped her gaze to the tabletop and for the first time since she had stepped into the reception hall she sounded anything but determined. Richelieu could feel the tension at the table rise again as she spoke. 

"Not at all, Your Majesty," he said. 

Five pairs of eyes turned to him, but Richelieu only looked at the queen.

"I have cast my net wide, but some of the biggest fishes I hoped to catch are still too far out."

Furrows appeared in Queen Anne's otherwise youthfully smooth brow.

"I remember, you said you're not ready to return to Paris yet?"

At his side Richelieu sensed Treville stiffen, but the cardinal continued to look at Anne. 

"No. And the rest of the swarm will no doubt scatter once word of my return spreads. But it's of no matter. Her Majesty's safety, and that of the Dauphin, is more important than Monsieur's games." 

"What do you mean?" The urgency in Treville's voice forced Richelieu to finally look at him. His lover's eyes were wide with shock, and the now regretted not having brought it up when they were alone. It had been on his mind but it had never occurred to him their might have been an opportunity to mention it. 

"I'm going to have to go to Paris and convince the king to arrest Rochefort, and not the queen, for treason. I doubt there'll be time to discuss his brother and have him sign a stack of arrest warrants before that."

Treville's expression turned to pure anguish for a moment, making Richelieu anxious about the musketeers' reactions to their captain's distress. But their attention was focused solely on the cardinal. They showed little understanding of his plight.

"Shame your secretary can't just forge those, Your Eminence."

No matter how sharp d'Artagnan was, and how much he had once meant his proposal of offering him and officer's commission in the Red Guard, in that moment Richelieu could have throttled the boy.

"Even if I were so audacious to forge my king's signature, they'd still be worthless without his Royal seal."

The table fell silent as the queen calmly folded her hands in front of her.

"Does it matter which Royal signs the warrants?" she asked.

"Your Majesty, you would do this for me?"

"Why shouldn't I assist you in punishing those responsible for conspiring against my husband's minister, and threatening the peace of my kingdom?"

For a second or two Richelieu stared. At his side Treville looked about ready to kiss the queen. So, of course, did Aramis, but Richelieu was too distracted by his shock to comment on it.

Once again it was d'Artagnan who kicked his brain back to work: "Will that help you? The queen has been accused of treason—"

"I am still Queen of France."

"Yes. Your Majesty, I would be honoured to accept your offer, but there is another problem. I don't have enough men. I have three dozen former Red Guards here, but I will have to send them to where Gaston is currently holding court in Blois in order to strike there first. I can't retain more than half a dozen guards and would have to take back control of the Red Guard before we can make any arrests in Paris." 

"Use king's musketeers instead." Treville's matter-of-fact tone made Richelieu a little ashamed of the fact that he had not thought of it himself. Of course Treville would offer his own men to help him. 

"Once we're in Paris," he continued, "I'll head back to the garrison and send out the musketeers with your warrants while you head directly for the palace."

"We still have to get you to the king," d'Artagnan interjected, "without Rochefort getting a chance to interfere."

"He will be distracted if I arrive at the palace shortly before you."

All eyes turned to the queen. 

"Your Majesty, is that wise? He'll be waiting for you to return."

"That's what we want, isn't it? It will give the cardinal time alone with my husband." 

"Are you certain?" No one but Aramis dared question her in that moment. 

She took a deep breath. "He will lock me up but that is all he can do until the trial - a trial that the king will never allow once he hears what the cardinal has to say about Rochefort."

Her eyes swept the table. "I'm going to face Rochefort."

"But not alone." Porthos gestured at his sword and the determined façade the queen had kept up throughout the entire discussion cracked when she smiled at him.

"Porthos and d'Artagnan will stay with you." Treville looked at each of the musketeers. "Aramis, I want you to accompany the cardinal. It'll be better if Rochefort doesn't see you with the queen. We shouldn't provoke him more than necessary where Her Majesty is concerned."

It wasn't a very diplomatic approach, but for once Aramis kept his protests to a minimum. _Perhaps_ , Richelieu thought, _there was some hope for him yet_.

"Then it is decided?" The queen's gazed flickered back to Richelieu. "We may strike immediately?"

The cardinal stood just so he could bow his head properly. "Your Majesty, I would be honoured to introduce you to my secretary immediately. He has most of the documents written out that you would need to sign."

"It will be my pleasure to meet him." 

She stood as well, causing everyone else present to rise. And as sudden as that their meeting was at an end. 

The musketeers, their former captain included, remained in the hall, while Richelieu escorted the queen to the quarters of his employees, but they did not hurry.

"I am surprised you place this much trust in me, Your Majesty."

"I could hardly believe it when the captain told me you were alive, Cardinal." 

They walked side by side, not looking at each other as they talked. 

"I will not claim to say my feelings weren't mixed, even when he told me you could help us."

"You keep calling him 'captain' even though he has been relived of his command by the king."

"I wasn't asked. And he never stopped being the captain as far as I could see." 

Richelieu could not help but risk a glance at her. She still wore her regal mask, looking straight ahead.

"If you won't believe I trust you," she said, "you may believe that I trust him."

He did. 

Up until the recent past Richelieu had managed to justify his behaviour towards the queen to himself, even when he had conspired to kill her. When he had first settled upon the idea to replace Anne with Charlotte the lack of an heir had been in the forefront of his mind, and he thought little of snuffing a single life for what he viewed as the bigger picture. 

But in the face of such good judgement as exhibited by Anne it became increasingly harder for Richelieu not to remember how, when he had imagined Charlotte on the throne, he had also hoped for a queen who looked at him more kindly, without growing suspicious and fearful of his methods.

"I am grateful for your assistance, Your Majesty. But once I am back in Paris I will have to take the decisions in the fashion I've always done."

Queen Anne did not falter in her step.

Richelieu continued. "However, when I tried to assure Aramis I would not use my knowledge of the Dauphin's parentage against you I was speaking the truth. My first loyalty has always been to France and it still is. As far as I'm concerned the Dauphin is the king's heir and will guarantee stability for years to come." A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth and Richelieu allowed it. "Even if only by dampening Monsieur's hopes of usurping the throne."

Briefly he looked at the queen again. "That is, if you keep this secret as well."

Her expression remained unchanged, but she blinked, once. "Let that be my concern, please."

The cardinal did not press her further. Time would tell how steadfast she would remain.

"Whatever I decide," she added after a pause. "Aramis is dear to me and I'll continue to watch his career."

The implication was clear. 

"Aramis has nothing to fear from me," Richelieu said. After all, Treville would have his skin if it were otherwise. "As long as he does what he needs to protect the Dauphin's secret."

They were almost at their destination. When Richelieu pointed it out to her, the queen made him arrest his steps. 

"Cardinal," she said, facing him for the first time. "It looks like you will end up saving my life and my son's life. I won't forget what happened between us in the past, but I see no reason why we shouldn't be of use to each other in the future – within reason." 

Richelieu raised a curious eyebrow, eager for her to go on and explain herself.

"Once my husband reinstates you in your position you will be my minister too, after all." She fixed him with a look that could have been hard from anyone else, but out of her blue dove eyes is appeared eerily friendly. "But I'm not him."

She said no more, and Richelieu bowed as they continued on their way. After he introduced the queen and explained to her and Charpentier what was needed from them he found time to think:

He had underestimated the queen for all the time he had been in office. What he had seen all this time had been the shy, sad girl who had come to France young without even speaking the language and who married a young man who never appeared all that much interested in her. What he had continued to see what the scared girl whose Spanish entourage had been banished from Court to force her to become more French. The girl to whom the queen mother's council, and this dark deceitful man of the church had been frightful. He had been so blinded by this image that he had missed the moment in which her shyness had turned into deliberate reserve and the fright into a calculated mask. 

Even after she had shown her strength and successfully thwarted his conspiracy against her he had continued to not see her fully for what she was. Until now. He had considered her far more naïve than she deserved. She still made mistakes, she still had to grow out of so many flaws that were the fault of her sheltered upbringing; but she was learning. 

In Richelieu's eyes kings and queens were not required to know how dirty the game of politics could get. For once they knew, they also shared the responsibility. Once they knew they might wonder about lessening the horrible weight of that responsibility, often involving processes that slowed the cogs and wheels of politics down, fatally so. Richelieu much preferred Royals who, like Louis, left the responsibilities of knowing to him and were simply thankful for the magic he weaved once the work was done.

Was she now telling him she would be asking to share this burden?

Richelieu guessed it would take quite a while for him to decide how he felt about this. Now if only she could translate that wisdom into resisting musketeers and enlightened peasant women, and maybe the cardinal would be feeling less anxious about her – or maybe more.

* * *

Once Charpentier and the queen set to work there was no reason for the cardinal to hang around. But before he returned to the audience hall Richelieu went in search of Cahusac. He needed his captain to prepare the guards for their trip to Blois. Only, when he found him, it turned out Cahusac was looking for him as well. 

"There's news from Paris," he explained.

"Let me guess: The queen has been put under house-arrest?"

"Indeed. And the Dauphin has been moved to the king's apartments. There is also a faint whispering that the queen has fled the palace, but it's only a rumour."

"Nothing else? There have been no charges made public?"

"None."

"Excellent."

For once developments at the palace seemed to favour them. He motioned to Cahusac to walk with him to his office as they were standing in the middle of a hallway. 

"I need you to pick a handful of men who stay with me here, the rest will move to Blois in an hour." 

"What about the Lord Keeper and—"

"We're not going to wait for the rest of our friends to return to Paris. I will be accompanying her Majesty back to Paris tonight. She has graciously agreed to sign our papers."

Richelieu informed him on what had been decided. It was a lot to take in, but Cahusac managed. When working for the cardinal you either found ways to keep up or you stopped working for him.

"And I want you to send a rider ahead of the guards, immediately." A single rider would arrive there much more quickly than a group of soldiers who would require a carriage or two for the transportation of their soon to be guests. "We owe our agents in Blois a fair warning."

Cahusac bowed, signalling he was about to leave and execute his orders immediately. But then he thought better of it:

"If possible I'd like to accompany you to Paris, Your Eminence. Desportes can lead the expedition to Blois just as well."

"It never entered my mind to suggest anything else."

But still Cahusac remained rooted to the spot. "There is one last thing. It doesn't concern this operation, but I feel like it's important you know."

"What is it?"

"Being confined here has taken its toll on all of us." The captain dropped his voice. "Ever since we returned from Paris - despite Rochefort, despite Fauchet – ever since Paris you're happy."

Richelieu swallowed. "And?" 

"Don't lose that, Your Eminence."

It did not happen to him often, but the cardinal did not have the words to reply. What could he have said? _I won't? I'll try?_ Or he could have told him that his happiness didn't matter and that it was none of Cahusac's business as long as he was able to do his job. But in truth, Richelieu realised that denying him this rare moment of openness would have done a disservice to his loyal captain.

Cahusac left quickly to organise the trip to Blois, before the cardinal had come up with a satisfactory answer in his mind. As Richelieu wandered back to the audience hall it occurred to him that before Paris Cahusac had hardly ever spoken to him so freely.

When he reached his destination he found Treville there alone. He stood looking out of the window, turning his head when the cardinal entered. 

With Cahusac's words fresh in his mind and thoughts of Treville's recent injury never having been absent, Richelieu could not decide how even to begin a conversation.

"I told them to get some rest." Treville saved him by addressing the absent musketeers' whereabouts without being prompted. "Your brother was gracious enough to provide them with a room."

"What about you?"

Treville did not consider this a question deserving of an answer and turned back towards the window. He was right, of course, and Richelieu could not deny that he would have been disappointed if he'd retreated with the musketeers.

"They were curious how I came to know you were still alive."

Richelieu walked up to the table behind Treville, resting a hand on the tabletop.

"What did you tell them?"

Treville turned around and walked over, leaning against the table next to him.

"I told them you contacted me for assistance because you needed someone placed highly at court to keep an eye on the king; and on Gaston's allies."

"And they believed I would come to you for help?"

"Under the dire circumstances of Gaston shaking up Louis' court to thin out the opposition and promote his favourites? I hope so."

It sounded like he'd told them what Treville felt Richelieu should have done from the beginning. But while Richelieu regretted some aspects of how he had managed his exile, this was not one of them. Leave the spying to the spies. It was safer that way.

"Did Porthos cause any trouble after I left?"

"He's too good a man for that." At least Treville did not sound offended. The last thing Richelieu wanted was to start another row over the musketeers.

"And the issue between the two of you—"

"Has been resolved." There was a final note in his voice that discouraged further questions. But then his face brightened with the ghost of a smile. "Our relationship might even be better now than it was before. Again, because Porthos is a good man, and you could start trusting my musketeers around me."

Richelieu opened his mouth to reply but Treville stopped him.

"I'm fine. Your concern is flattering, but it's you I'm worried about."

"Me?"

The smile disappeared.

"You should have told me you weren't ready. We could have tried going after Vargas instead."

Richelieu faced him, raising an incredulous eyebrow. This was a topic he knew how to deal with again. "And risk Rochefort taking out his wrath on Madame Bonacieux in the meantime? Or even the Dauphin? I can't believe you'd ever prefer that."

"No." Treville balked. "I simply had hoped…"

"What?"

"It's of no consequence now."

"Jean, please."

Treville sighed. He stared straight ahead, back out of the window again, where the afternoon was slowly passing by.

"I'd hoped you would be safe for a while. Safer," he corrected himself. "After going through all this trouble…" His voice trailed off and even in profile Richelieu could see the sorrow tugging at his features.

"Thanks to the queen Gaston will still find himself without support."

"What about the 'big fish' you're going to miss?"

"As long as we get the rest they won't matter in the long run. What we needed to avoid was having do drag each of them out of their castles where they could strike up defensive pacts and rally a militia against the tyranny of the king and his minister. To me it appears we succeeded."

He sent Treville a playfully appraising look. "And you're going to deliver them to me, with your musketeers. How can I ever thank you?"

"I'm sure I can think of something."

Richelieu encompassed the room with a look. "Would you prefer to take this to a more private setting?"

To his surprise Treville raised his eyebrows at him.

"Now? I thought you wanted me to rest?"

The cardinal sighed. "That's not what I necessarily meant to imply. May I at least offer you a drink?"

"Alright. But none of your cousin's piss."

Richelieu grinned at him.

They found their way back to the set of rooms allocated for Richelieu's private use where Treville had visited him first such a long time ago.

As they sat together relaxing in companionable silence, Richelieu remembered how a while back he had wondered whether they were even capable of being domestic around each other. He could not deny part of him was excited at the thought of trying. 

There was excitement to their previous arrangements, true, but Richelieu had always been a friend of control or a sense thereof, of steadiness. 

He was certain he could get the king to grant Treville an estate all on his own, not dependant on his brother. One for which he would hire a stead holder for now, and that he could govern himself once he retired. It might be enough for him. After all, the musketeers would only get more exhausting with growing age, and this way he would still get to order people about. 

But Richelieu also realised that these thoughts, if anything but fancy, were of a distant future. Paris was their home and Richelieu would not drag Treville away from serving as the king's first soldier for anything in the world. It was what Treville had been born to do and what had eventually attracted Richelieu to him.

The cardinal would see that he remained in this position as long as possible.

Yet he could also not deny that during the past he had been worried sick about Treville to the point of distraction. When he had had to hide his survival from him. When Treville had been relieved of his command. When he had been shot. 

And Treville himself had barely been functioning in the days immediately after Richelieu's supposed death. 

It had not stopped them from doing their duty, but it was a sentiment to consider.

They had not started out with the intention, but they had become dependent on each other, and maybe they were even in love. At least Richelieu, for one, realised it was more than mere desire that drove him. 

Whichever future became true for them, they did not need to be domestic for their relationship to be real.

When the Red Guards were ready Richelieu saw them off with a little speech. When it was time for the rest of them to head for Paris, Richelieu left his brother's chateau for the last time, riding through the gates at Treville's side.


	10. You Who Are Fed Well Now

The sound of Rochefort's footsteps had long since faded. The heat between them had ebbed away to a simmer, but the sensation was still strong enough to keep Milady dazed. She pressed closer against Athos in the cardinal's secret cabinet and Athos let her. He rested his face in her hair, breathing heavily. 

"Anne," he sighed and she shuddered. How long had it been since she had heard her name, her own name, said without despair or disgust clinging to the word. 

They could do it. They could leave, together. She had enough money for both of them. They could make a fresh start. She could be who she wanted to be, rather than who the men who paid her needed her to be. She could transform one final time, and she would not have to do it alone if Athos truly believed... All she had to do was ask. 

But she didn't. 

She ran her fingers over his uniform. The leather was smooth under her fingertips, protecting what lay underneath from feeling her touch.

This was who he was now. One heated moment was not enough to convince her he would ever leave this new life. It didn't suffice to burn away what obstacles the past had placed between him, nor could it erode the walls they each had erected around who they were now. 

She placed her hands onto his chest caught between an impulse to push him away and the desire to draw him closer, but stopped herself from moving entirely when she heard it. Placed a finger in front of his lips she drew Athos' attention to the office.

There it was again. The sound of footsteps.

Was Rochefort returning already?

But it was Fauchet who entered the abandoned office, carrying a lamp. He walked over to the desk in the centre of the room unconcerned by the traitorous softness of the melted wax at the tips of the candles placed atop it. After all, Rochefort had left here only shortly before.

Using the lamp to light the candles Fauchet sat down at the desk, opening secret drawers with smooth, practiced movements. After a moment, apparently not having found what he was looking for he dropped to his knees without making a sound and ran his hands across the floorboards. Finding the lose one, he lifted it before turning away again disappointed. Finally, he raised the lamp to the shelves, and started walking around the office slowly, deliberately, softly.

Milady's breath caught in her throat. Her fingers closed around her pistol and she could feel Athos slowly, noiselessly do the same. 

Fauchet removed a book here and there, without any apparent effect. After a minute the Vicomte came to a stop right in front of them.

The light of the lamp did not reach them, Milady was sure of it. There was no possible way he could see them as Fauchet was peering into the darkness between the shelves from inside the lit office.

Fauchet turned around, but she still held her breath. Only when he left the office carrying out of it nothing other than the lamp he had come in with did she start to breathe again. Pressed against Athos she listened to his footsteps become inaudible in the distance.

After remaining were they were, pressed against each other for a couple of minutes more they stepped out of the cabinet. 

"That was the Vicomte de Fauchet."

"Don't worry about it. He works for Rochefort same as I do."

Athos frowned at her. It was seemingly all he ever did now, even after what they had just done. Her resolve not to mention her plans to him hardened.

"Go," she said, sweeping her gaze around the office. "Bring your captain what we found here." When she raised her eyes again she found him looking at her. She had never expected to see that look again, so curious instead of judging – asking instead of demanding.

"Just go," she repeated, but the commanding tone had dropped from her voice. She hastened a smirk onto her face. "I'm not running away." _Not yet._

Athos left without another word, but not before locking eyes with her first.

 _Maybe_ , she tought.

Maybe she would ask him.

She shook herself and turned her thoughts back onto what they had just witnessed. Had Fauchet come to destroy the evidence against his brother? To free himself from Rochefort? Or to protect himself against the cardinal? Either way Richelieu would want to know he had been in here.

Milady waited a short while before she followed Athos out of the office so they would not be seen leaving the palace together. She had just entered the wide, columned hall in front of the office when she heard the hammer being pulled back on the pistol behind her.

"Now what were you doing in there?"

Milady stopped. She took her time turning around. 

"Georges." She rolled her eyes at Fauchet even though her heart was pounding. "What did it look like? I was having a look round Rochefort's office and hid myself when I heard someone coming. And besides," she beamed at him, "I could ask you the same question." 

As Milady had expected Fauchet did not lower his weapon. But on the positive side he had not shot her either, nor called for the guard.

"What was it that you were looking for? Did you perhaps find anything in the cardinal's special cabinet?"

"I had wondered whether you knew about that. You seemed to know quite a few of his other tricks."

Fauchet did not twitch. Of course. She had never encountered him looking anything but composed. Yet, this time there was hardness to his composure. His face looked so tense she thought he might break his jaw if he bit down any harder.

"I can shoot you now and go ask your musketeer instead. It's Athos, isn't it?" He spoke through bared teeth and Milady had to fight from keeping her expression from souring as he stepped closer. "Once he learns what he's been up to Rochefort won't hesitate to question him about it in most emphatic way."

While Fauchet talked, Milady kept up her smirk, but her face felt frozen. 

"Calm down," she said, attempting to take her own advice. "We're all on the same side. We're all working for the cardinal."

This time Fauchet's face twitched and Milady prayed she had not overplayed her hand. She suppressed the urge to run as he took another step closer. There was no sense in giving him a reason to shoot. Besides, if she continued to stand fast while he advanced step by step he would soon be close enough for her to snatch his pistol. 

"We were looking for a connection between Rochefort and Vargas," she said, "but didn't find anything. No doubt, you attempted the same without any more luck?" 

"Of course."

She saw some of the tension drain out of his jaw and allowed herself to take a deep breath.

Now, to give him a bigger problem to chew on than herself and Athos: there was no finer way to distract a dishonest man than by feeding him a part of the truth. "I sent Athos away with one of the Comte's seals in lieu of anything more useful to appease the cardinal. But I doubt Richelieu will take the time to find use for it."

"And why is that?"

She hesitated as she stared down the barrel of his gun. Just for a moment. "Are you taking me for a fool? You know what I'm talking about. Do you still not believe I work for the cardinal? Is that why you need to hear me say it?" She paused briefly for a response that she knew would not come. "It's because this operation is winding down."

Fauchet took half a step back before he caught himself. Milady could see him lick his lips. No doubt his mouth had just gone very dry.

_Of course that's news for you, because he didn't trust to tell you. But what you still don't know is just how soon he'll return, and that he'll have your hide drying in the sun within a couple of days._

It had to be the truth. There was no way the cardinal was sitting still with the queen under his roof.

She watched him swallow. 

"In your search of Rochefort's office. Did you find anything concerning the siege of La Rochelle?"

She raised her eyebrows at him, opening her mouth slightly in feigned confusion. "What would Rochefort want with that? He had nothing to do with the siege? The only documents the cardinal kept on the siege will be in his palais," she added. She needed to make Facuhet leave the palace so that she could leave as well.

"Naturally," Fauchet said. His face resembled a mask once more. 

"One more thing."

He lunged at her, pressing her against the nearest pillar and driving the breath from her as he pushed his arm against her throat. She had started to reach for her gun the moment he started moving, but he grabbed her hand in time and squeezed her fingers until her flesh cut into the metal ornamentation of the pistol grip. Milady gasped in pain, despite the pressure against her throat.

Crushing her hand against the stone column Fauchet forced her to drop the weapon and kicked it away. The metal clattered as it scudded across the floor. Surely the sound would attract the Red Guard.

Winded, her vision turned to sparks she was unable to react in time when he loosened his grip to relieve her of the dagger at her belt. 

Stepping back, holding his pistol and her dagger, he let her go, and Milady leant back against the pillar with a sigh.

"You may leave now."

Milady tossed her head as she straightened herself. 

"A true gentleman would have asked."

She heard him scoff and had to suppress a gasp when she saw the snarl on his face. So much for the eternally composed Georges de Fauchet. 

"Cardinal's already made his move, hasn't he? Well, then we won't have to worry ourselves about Rochefort." He raised the corners of his mouth in an attempt at a smile but failed.

Milady opened her mouth, but no words came.

"Just leave," he hissed before she had decided on an answer. "Leave!"

Milady did not wait for him to repeat himself. She strode out of the palace, not sticking around long enough to find out whether he would run to Rochefort first, or whether he would head to the Palais Cardinal to continue his search.

She hoped he would seek out Rochefort and she hoped the Comte killed him.

When she finally felt the night air once more upon her face she swore quietly into the darkness. She was going to ask Athos to leave with her. She was going to ask him and he'd better appreciate what she had just done.

* * *

The torches mounted along the archway flickered, turning the seams of the stone walls into dark fissures as the soldiers approached the city gate. The old gateway towered above them, hewn of the same stone as the walls it was set in. They were walls that had withstood sieges, protecting the inhabitants and the wealth of Paris for centuries against usurpers and looters, and sometimes against their rightful king. But tonight they would not keep out their queen. 

Queen Anne was hanging back from the scene, still seated on her horse just outside the reach of the torchlight, while the musketeers rode up to present themselves to the night watch. 

Letting Rochefort know they were there before they even entered the city would mean revealing their entire hand and effectively handing the game to their enemy. It was imperative that none of the guards now approached by Treville and his men learned who they escorted. 

Simply ordering the night watch to stand down was out of the question. It was as Richelieu had put it to Treville earlier this evening: "For all intents and purposes you are a regular foot soldier, I'm dead, and the queen is supposedly fled from house arrest." Since none of them possessed the required authority to order the guard to let them in _and_ keep quiet about it they therefore had decided to attempt to pass into Paris – and if possible into the palace – by pretending to be nothing more than a group of soldiers. 

Richelieu had told him how he had passed into the city to visit him, but Treville doubted they would gain entry as easily tonight. He expected Rochefort to have ordered a lookout to be kept for the disappeared queen. Furthermore, at this late hour, they appeared to be the only travellers hoping to gain access to the city at this particular gate, which allowed the watch to spend all the time they felt they needed to examine their documents, and study their faces.

As the musketeers dismounted any hopes that the night watch wouldn't be interested in them soon died. In addition to the four musketeers their group of new arrivals consisted of six Red Guards out of uniform, Cahusac, and two figures concealed under wide brimmed hats and cloaks, and the appearance of a dozen armed men had the watchmen rightfully worried. 

As the musketeers approached a third guard shuffled out of the watch house, apparently mainly for moral support it seemed, as he came to a halt a couple of paces behind his two colleagues. 

Throwing his fellows a dark look one of the first guardsmen demanded to know what they thought they were doing asking for entry into the city at such an hour.

"Musketeers' business." Aramis stepped up, flashing one of his brilliant smiles. "Don't tell me you don't recognise Monsieur de Treville!"

Treville stepped closer to the light shed by the torches and lifted his hat slightly, the better for the guards to see his face. 

The guardsman blinked at him. "Monsieur, of course," he said, but did not even bow his head. 

It was proof of how far royal disfavour reached. Treville could sense his musketeers bristle at this slight, except for Aramis who kept up his smooth demeanour:

"In fact, we have orders by the First Minister himself to deliver two individuals into his hands." 

The guard's eyes narrowed. It was hard to gauge in the harsh light of the flickering torches, but Treville estimated his age to be well above the kind of youth that meant a guard could be too trusting, but also above the age in which a night watchman was too eager to risk his neck in order to do a thorough job.

This particular guard used his neck by craning it to get a good look at the cloaked figures over Aramis' shoulder.

"Who are they?"

"Forgive me, friend," Aramis rubbed his brow under his hat in a nonchalant gesture. "But the Comte de Rochefort would hang me if I told you. And I quite like my neck the way it is." 

Aramis grinned at him, but the guard did not smile back and Treville could not help but feel Aramis had overdone it by calling him "friend."

Just then D'Artagnan poked Aramis in the back. "Simply show him the orders and let's be on our way." Treville shot the young musketeer a look and d'Artagnan coughed. "I'm thirsty!"

When they both looked to Treville as if for permission their former captain nodded his head:

"Porthos, please, before we take root here."

Porthos was the one who had kept the papers graced with Rochefort's seal safe throughout the journey. It was a satisfying sight to watch the guardsmen flinch as soon as the tall, broad-shouldered musketeer stepped forward. One of them backed away far enough to almost bump into the third man standing behind him.

With the deftness of a thief Porthos unfolded the paper and flashed it in front the watchmen's eyes, so they could each get a good look at the seal and a glimpse of the signature, before he put it back again just as swiftly. Since the document had been rushed in order to be ready for their departure, Richelieu had warned them that it might not hold up to close examination.

The first guardsman, who had remained standing where he was despite Porthos' impressive frame, exhaled what could be taken for a sigh of relief. But his colleagues standing behind him appeared less convinced: "The Comte de Rochefort sent you? Musketeers?"

It was as Treville had feared. Rochefort had set the guards on edge, and most likely specifically warned them not to trust his seal unless he told them from whom to expect to see it that night. 

"The Comte has the regrettable authority to send us out in a night like this," Aramis sighed, "as he keeps reminding us."

Treville's heart beat faster while he waited for the guards to come to a conclusion.

"And he can't use his own men for it, because…?"

"Officially we're doing the king's business. Rochefort sent us because when we collected our two friends no one was to know that it was the First Minister personally who ordered them to Paris. But that has to stay between us." Aramis patted the satchel at his side. There was the distinct sound of coins clinking to be heard. "And to be honest, would you be sending the Red Guard anywhere when you could be using musketeers?" Richelieu's guards were still within earshot, but just this once they had to sit still and take it.

Aramis patted his purse again and the other two guards closed ranks with their colleague. Demonstratively Treville turned his face away to examine the giant archway of the gate while the exchange took place. The last time these walls had to prove their worth he had still been a boy. 

"Maybe you could invite us in," Aramis continued, purse safely stowed away again. "We've been riding a good long while. Our flasks are empty and my friend here could use a drink."

Next to him d'Artagnan cleared his throat for emphasis.

"Wine doesn't come cheap, what with these taxes lately."

"Ah, money the minister gave us enough for this mission. But there's never enough wine. Let's drink on the good Comte's health together and pay for it with his own money."

This time the guard returned his grin. The sight did not calm Treville; on the contrary it caused his blood to heat up.

"I feel like we should have another look at those orders in the light of the watch house, what do you say?" The guard turned to his colleagues. "I'm sure I'll like them better at a second glance."

The other two guards murmured their assent, even though one of them continued to look reluctant about it. "What about you, Monsieur?"

Treville shot him a look he used to reserve for courtiers who complained that the king was spending too much money on his guard regiments, or how they would have ended this or that siege a lot sooner if they had been in command. Usually the look induced the offender to walk out of a room backwards. 

"If the wine's better than your conversation it'll just do to clean the dust out of my throat. Just."

The guard glowered, but his colleagues merely laughed at him. Together they turned to the watch house, holding the door open for the musketeers, but in that moment Porthos stepped forward again. 

"What about our friends?"

This was followed immediately by d'Artagnan wailing "oh please, I'm parched."

The guards looked at each other until the one who had suggested he'd like their orders better if his pockets were a little heavier appeared to pull rank. 

His two colleagues were subsequently left outside with Cahusac and his soldiers to help them watch over the two cloaked figures while the remaining guardsman bade them enter the guardroom. But he stopped Porthos with a reluctant hand. 

"It's just a humble guardroom. It gets crowded easily. We'll hand you a cup to drink outside." 

Porthos grunted at him, but surrendered their false orders to Treville while dutifully remaining outside. The guard led the rest of the musketeers into the humble chamber sporting what Treville could not interpret as anything other than a sly look. Once inside they were greeted by another four watchmen who were sitting at a rectangular table and bent over a game of cards. They put down their hands but otherwise seemed little interested in why they were visited by musketeers. Presumably they knew what was going on.

"Finally!" D'Artagnan exclaimed as he walked into the room, gesturing at the bottles resting against the table legs. He walked over to them, picked one up and took a satisfied sniff. "I thought I was going to die of thirst out there!"

Treville rolled his eyes at him. He remained standing next to their host, near the door, and looked over the orders graced by Rochefort's seal. The rush of his blood in his ears was a background noise against the talking at the table, the soft sound of Porthos' pacing from outside and the shuffling of the man next to him. 

Meanwhile d'Artagnan had taken a swig right out of the bottle.

"Forget that swill! Here." Their host signalled to one of the guards to get out of his seat which Aramis immediately took over. The musketeer had hardly sat down before he took a peak at the guard's abandoned hand of cards and grimaced.

Said guard did not move a muscle in his face.

Producing one of the coins he had gotten off Aramis their host patted the other guard on the back.

"Take this and get the special stuff from our friend. You can tell him we got some generous guests."

The guard was outside in a flash and their host closed the door behind him.

"Now," he said. "Let's see those orders, please."

He only just managed to draw his pistol free off its holster before Treville grabbed his hand, wrested the weapon from him, dislocating the man's thumb in the process, and brought up the pistol butt to smash the guard's nose. 

His opponent went down without another sound and Treville turned towards the table where d'Artagnan had felled another guard with the bottle of wine. It had failed to break, but d'Artagnan already had his dagger in hand for the next challenger. The man who had been sitting next to the knocked-out guard was faced with the combined problem of first having to rise to meet d'Artagnan and having made the mistake of reaching for his sword instead of his off-hand weapon. 

Their host had been right about thing: it was a humble guardroom, meaning it lacked the space for a rapier duel.

The sword was only halfway out of its sheath before the guard felt d'Artagnan's shorter blade at his throat.

On the other side of the table Aramis was watching the show with an arm placed around the neck of the guardsman he was sitting next to and holding his dagger to the man's throat with his other hand. 

"This evening wasn't going your way anyway," he said in a conversational tone. "Your friend had five queens. I'm not one for slander, but I don't think you should play with him again."

"That's enough banter," Treville said. He made a show of holding up his pistol and checking the powder in the flash pan. The last thing they needed was for a shot to be fired and alert even more guards, but none of their prisoners looked like they were intent on calling his bluff. 

The man held by d'Artagnan seethed, his chest moving with each angry breath, but his attention was soon called back to the point of the musketeer's dagger, while Aramis' prisoner was staring at their erstwhile host, or rather at his ruined face. The view caused the prisoner's skin to take on a greenish tinge. 

Their host, lying at Treville's feet, groaned and raised a shaking hand to his head, but immediately withdrew it as if stung. At the moment the musketeers did not have the luxury to feel too sorry for him. In drawing on them the guards had only done their duty, but unfortunately for all of them that duty had been to betray the musketeers to Rochefort.

Only a few short moments had passed since the scuffle had ended, and already Porthos' familiar footsteps could be heard approaching the door. The musketeer entered followed by two of Cahusac's Red Guards. The hands of one of them were stained with blood which had only been sloppily wiped off as Treville noticed. So did the remaining, conscious guardsmen. 

"Everything's quiet outside, Captain," reported Porthos, his expression hard.

Treville nodded. Now that Porthos was here to keep an extra eye on their prisoners Treville helped their injured host to a sitting position, before he addressed Musketeers and Red Guards alike: "Tie these men up and gag them."

It would be hard on the man with the broken nose, but Richelieu's life depended on it. These guards had intended to alarm Rochefort's troops and even if they had not meant to kill any of the musketeers, they would have attempted to hold them until Rochefort's reinforcements arrived. They could have hardly been more obvious about where their runner was going if they had stated it to the musketeers' faces. 

Treville refused to contemplate in detail where that scenario would have left them. While the Comte would have had to content himself with locking up the queen again until he could bring her to trial once he happened upon her; his revenge on Richelieu could be exacted much more swiftly. If Rochefort caught him he would kill him before the cardinal had any chance to see the king and all their hopes of bringing down Rochefort before he could destroy the queen would die with him. If this came to pass Treville's only comfort would be that he would most likely not be alive to see it happen.

"Don't try to put up a fight," he warned the guardsmen, pushing the dark future aside in favour of a knife-edge present. "It's not worth it. Rochefort doesn't pay you enough." At the edge of his field of vision Aramis attempted to set the nose of their former host, doing what he could to allow him to breathe. "Stay calm and you'll be doing your king a service." To go by the cold look in the guards' eyes these were empty words falling on deaf ears, but Treville still felt the need to say them. "Come morning the Comte will no longer be one of your problems."

Unless Rochefort stopped the cardinal from seeing Louis. Unless Louis chose not to believe the cardinal.

Treville heard their host groan in pain on the floor by his side and left him and his colleagues to the gentle ministrations of the musketeers. They had to move on, but not without leaving a pair of Red Guards behind to watch over the gate until Treville could send more musketeers to relieve them. For now it was time he found out what happened to their friends outside.

When Treville stepped back into the night he found Cahusac and his guards were sitting on three bound prisoners. Just as heartening as this sight was the lack of suspicious noise from the city. His ears strained to hear, but there were no rushing feet coming to the aid of the unfortunate watchmen.

As soon as the Red Guards saw Treville emerge from the guardroom they hauled the watchmen up to move them inside. All three of the captured men appeared to be alive and conscious as they were marched into the guardroom. Treville would have been shocked to learn otherwise, as eight trained soldiers, one of them Porthos, should be considered enough manpower to subdue three surprised guards. Yet, as the Red Guards passed by him Treville noticed the runner in particular looking worse for wear. There were scratches on his face, no doubt from being pushed to the ground. One of his eyes was swollen shut and he was bleeding from a shallow cut across his temple and brow. Treville guessed the reast of the tale when he spotted one of the Red Guards who did not occupy himself by moving the prisoners was holding his forearm which was covered with a makeshift bandage. The blood Treville had spotted on the other Red Guard's hands earlier likely stemmed from patching up his brother-in-arms.

"It was an accident," said Cahusac noticing his look. "Hidden blade. Devil knows where he kept it that we didn't find it on him when we disarmed him."

These things happened, Treville knew. What mattered now was that they could proceed into the city quickly, without anymore bloodshed and preferably before they attracted more unwanted attention.

Treville left the Red Guards to their work and turned towards the two cloaked figures. Now that the watchmen were gone they moved closer to the light.

"Good work, Captain," Richelieu commented, and Treville could not suppress the thrill that hearing his voice caused him. He thought his blood had cooled off since the short scuffle in the guardroom, but the way his heart skipped was a testament to how tense he still was. Richelieu did not need to see Treville's relief and excitement at having managed to delay the cardinal's capture, not the least because mingled in this excitement was a spike of lust for his lover, a left-over of the heat of the fight. Even after all these years his own human darkness never ceased to come as a surprise to Treville.

He made a disgruntled noise in response to mask his disconcertment and focused his attention on the queen instead. She remained just outside the reach of the orange torchlight and what he could glimpse of her face under the wide hat appeared supernaturally pale to him.

"I'm sorry you had to see this, Your Majesty."

"Don't worry, Captain. You're doing what you have to." She paused. "Need we expect further trouble?"

"No. Thanks to the swift action of both musketeers and Red Guards we're safe for now. But we still need to get you to the palace quickly." 

The captured guards would not remain undiscovered for long. 

But the queen managed a brave smile. "I happen to agree."

"Indeed," the cardinal said, "We should leave now. I hope to catch the king before he retires to bed." Even though Louis liked to go to bed and rise equally late, they had no time to waste. "And I will be following closely behind you, Your Majesty," he added, "but I need to fetch a number of papers from the Palais Cardinal first, as discussed."

This had been their plan. Now that the way into the city was free Treville would continue on alone to the musketeers' garrison while Porthos and d'Artagnan would ride straight to the palace and escort the queen back to her quarters. Shortly thereafter Richelieu, Aramis and the Red Guards would seek out the king. But before Richelieu could confront Louis about Rochefort they still needed to fetch the papers Richelieu kept on the good Comte's services to him from the Palais Cardinal.

"And who is going to fetch those?" Treville asked. 

"Myself, of course." 

"No." Treville had started speaking before Richelieu had finished. "You head directly to the palace. You shouldn't risk being seen and tipping off Rochefort or Gaston's people."

"Ah, but I remember we agreed I needed something of substance to present to Louis." Richelieu's face brightened into a patient smile. "The Palais Cardinal is practically ten minutes from the Louvre on horseback."

"Then there won't be much of a delay if I bring it to you."

Out of the corner of his eye Treville saw the musketeers and Red Guards filing out of the guardhouse again and collecting their horses. 

"I thought you were in charge of the arrests. I need these to take place before word of my return spreads." 

"What about Cahusac?"

Their eyes turned to the captain of Richelieu's guard who had probably stepped up to them to tell them that their men were ready to depart. His eyes widened in the horror shared by any person suddenly being drawn into a private dispute. "I wouldn't know where to begin to look!"

Richelieu agreed with him. "Neither you nor Cahusac know what you'd be looking for," he said, still managing to keep patient. "I won't be in there for there more than a couple of minutes. And as you might recall time is of the essence—"

"What if you get caught?"

"—such as the time we might waste by a discussion like this, raising the risk of my being found out."

Treville exchanged a sympathetic look with Cahusac, from guard soldier to guard soldier, that even Richelieu must have understood to mean _he's quite a handful_ , or maybe something along the lines only less politely worded. 

"I still can't believe you let him go to Paris the first time when you did."

Cahusac shrugged. "He gives the orders."

Treville nodded with a sigh.

"If we could return to the matter at hand," Richelieu interrupted, ignoring their identical, weary looks. "Besides, no one will notice I'm at the Palais. I have my ways." 

Of course he did. Treville had used some of them before to sneak out of the Palais when he needed to leave Richelieu's side at an inconvenient hour. Treville let got of a deep breath and behind him he could sense the musketeers becoming restless. They were right to. They should not remain here. He knew the sooner he agreed to Richelieu's plan the sooner things would be back to the way they had been before. Including the sneaking.

"Alright, go. But Cahusac is not leaving your side."

"Of course." Cahusac pressed his lips together, annoyed at the idea that anyone should expect him to do anything else. 

Richelieu did not object.

"But you're not riding on alone either." The cardinal's expression was invisible in the night as he motioned to two Red Guards. "Take Biscarrat and Anjou." Hearing their names they started to ride up to the group. 

"You will defend the captain with your lives, as if he were your own."

To his horror Treville watched the guards bow their heads.

"I can't take them! They're here to help you fight your way to the king if you have to!"

The image of what Rochefort would do to Richelieu if the cardinal happened to run into him returned to him in striking clarity. 

"I have enough guards."

Even though they were standing behind him Treville could sense his musketeers fidgeting with the shock of the once-in-a-lifetime occurrence of needing to agree with the cardinal, when Anne cut in.

"As your queen I order you to listen to the cardinal."

This settled it. This should have settled it, but Treville kept a stern gaze focused on Richelieu.

"Follow me to the palace once everything is set up. And bring a couple of musketeers along with my guards if you like, but I need you to reach the garrison and order those arrests first." Any other concern for Treville's personal safety on the cardinal's mind remained unsaid, but Treville could see it written on the cardinal's face, even though there was not enough light to read his expression clearly.

Treville sighed, bowing his head. It was not fair that Richelieu was doing to him what Treville wanted to do to Richelieu. He locked eyes with the man he had lost to death once before.

"Good luck, Your Eminence," he said and saw Richelieu smile.

"Don't get shot again."

This what not the place for any other parting words, as each group spurred on their horses to do what they had come to Paris for. The empty streets of Paris lay before them in the dark with no one to stop them.

* * *

Get in. Get the right document. Get out. A simple task. Now that Richelieu was alone in his old office he scoffed, wondering when Treville had become so fussy, trying to ignore that he knew the answer to that question very well. 

Still Richelieu believed that he had been in the right to insist. They hadn't encountered a single soul on their ride to the Palais Cardinal nor on their way to Richelieu's office and archive rooms. Two guards more would not have made a difference, while they would be two more men to help the musketeers to carry out the arrests. Sending them along had been the reasonable thing to do. Treville might not believe two guards would be of much use to him but then Richelieu doubted Treville had believed ever he would ever get shot on the streets of Paris in broad daylight before it happened. 

Selecting a paper scroll from the shelves Richelieu focused on the task at hand and frowned at the dust that had collected in his absence. Keeping someone around to clean while Louis decided on how to repurpose the wing would have been a stupid risk to take when none of his trusted staff were around to ensure that important documents remained exactly where they were supposed to be. 

A quick glance assured Richelieu that he had taken the right scroll. He turned towards the door but stopped himself. Rochefort was not the only former agent of his he would have to deal with in a timely fashion. 

He ran his hand along the side of a particular shelf until he heard the familiar click and taking up his lamp he descended the narrow staircase behind the shelf down to the archives. Selecting the next rolled up paper took him a while longer. The truly effective stuff was still with Charpentier at the chateau, but this one should suffice in a tight spot.

After storing the scrolls securely in his bag he returned to the main office and watched the shelf swing back into place. As he turned to leave he absent-mindedly wiped his dusty fingertips on his cloak, but then arrested in his steps. He frowned at the parts of the shelf that were now rubbed clean, giving every intruder a hint as to where to look for the mechanism. But as much as it annoyed him there was nothing Richelieu could do about it at present apart from ordering one of the guards to dust the entire office. Yet, as he had insisted in front of Treville there simply was no time to spare. 

With his quick steps echoing across the wooden floor he returned to Cahusac and the Red Guards who had been bidden to wait in the antechamber. Aramis had not even been allowed to enter the building and was – hopefully – watching the horses instead. There were secrets to his office Richelieu preferred no musketeer to see. Not even Treville needed to know where and how he stored all of his files. He tended to think of Treville's ability to keep to his principles in an environment rife with intrigue as one of his many attractive qualities. But too much of a good thing could lead to conflict, especially when these principles had a habit of making Treville dig into every little detail of one of Richelieu's counter-intrigues. 

He sighed as they started walking towards the exit. Treville should be arriving at the garrison about now. But sending a third guard to check would be foolish. Richelieu had no idea what awaited him at the palace and Treville would have every reason to feel insulted.

"Captain Treville is more than able to take care of himself." As Cahusac cut into his thoughts unbidden Richelieu took care to wipe away the dark expression that had crept unto his brow. 

"I trust Treville," he said. "It's everybody else I distrust."

Once outside they found Aramis waiting for them. The musketeer looked unfazed by having been relegated to watch their horses like a mere servant. He even offered to hold Richelieu's horse for him as he mounted.

"I'm surprised you didn't insist on accompanying your captain."

Aramis' neutral expression did not falter. "I'm doing this for the Queen," he said looking at the horse and patting its nose. It blew its nostrils at him. "No matter what happens, I'll continue to protect her."

"A noble sentiment, and of course, it is also your duty as a musketeer. But if you could learn to do it from a distance we'd all be happy to hear it."

When Aramis turned his gaze from horse to rider he lifted the brim of his hat in a mock salute so Richelieu could see the icy disdain in his eyes.

"You've never known how it feels to love someone when you know your love alone is enough to condemn them, and you can consider yourself fortunate for it." Aramis' voice trembled with emotion, but Richelieu continued to meet his gaze without flinching. "But I don't envy your hard heart, Your Eminence. At least I have loved."

"Just continue with your duties, musketeer." 

Aramis let go of the cardinal's horse and walked over to his own mount without waiting for another reply. Richelieu had nothing to say to him anyway.

* * *

When they arrived at the garrison the musketeers on guard duty were surprised to see their captain return in the company of what turned out to be two Red Guards, but Treville had no time to waste on explanations. He had hardly even dismounted before he ordered the musketeers to get every man currently at the garrison on their feet and to send a number of them out to call in any musketeers residing outside of the garrison that they could drum up within half an hour. 

The latter was a task for which Anjou volunteered himself with a barely concealed grin. Treville guessed that the Red Guard would hate to pass up an opportunity to drag musketeers out of bed and to have these actions officially sanctioned by their commander. But for the sake of the man's safety and the wish to avoid seeing Rochefort's Red Guard called to the scene of a bloody murder in the home of a musketeer Treville had to deny him.

Instead he sent him to the Bastille with Biscarrat to ensure its governor would be prepared for the arrival of his new guests.

Shortly thereafter Athos trotted into the garrison. Following the events of the day Treville had almost completely forgotten that the musketeer had stayed behind with Milady. 

"Trouble?" Treville asked as he saw Athos' solemn face.

Climbing from his horse Athos shook his head. "No. We were disturbed while in the office, but Milady knew one of the cardinal's old tricks. No one saw us."

From the way Athos' carefully guarded his expression Treville guessed that he, too, had come to find out what else the cardinal's secret cabinet was useful for. Treville pushed the thought far away for now.

"Did you find a connection to Vargas?"

"No, but we found this." Athos slipped off the bag he had slung over his shoulder and opened it, offering its contents to Treville. "More Spanish letters," he explained as Treville pulled out one of them. "They're not signed either," Athos added, "but it looks like someone provided Rochefort with the means to blackmail a great many more noblemen. Not all of them are courtiers, but some of the names are important enough to cause a stir."

"Dear God." Treville exhaled as he browsed through the letters. There were about thirty large sheaves of paper. Most of them appeared to be about the same couple of persons, but Treville recognised at least eight distinct names, a few of which made his eyebrows shoot up. "The cardinal will enjoy reading these."

He hesitated when he realised his first impulse upon being handed a bag full of blackmail material was to pass it on to the cardinal. Consequently he pushed the bag's contents back into Athos' hands. Treville decided he would subject each of the letters to a carefully examination before choosing their guardian. They might be better off in a warm, crackling fireplace. "After Aramis translated them for me."

Only then did he notice Athos was looking at him with a raised eye-brow, head tilted to the left.

"The cardinal, sir?"

Treville sighed.

"It's a long story, but if everything goes according to plan at the palace tonight, tomorrow will see the old First Minister back in office in place of the new one."

The bag jumped in Athos' arms. "He's alive." His voice remained flat as if he heard news like this everyday, but there was a resignation to it as if he hoped for the next shock to follow before he mustered the strength to sound distressed.

"So Richelieu being alive and returning to his post is the _good_ outcome?" Athos' other eyebrow joined the first. "And to think I believed Porthos was joking when he regretted not to have nailed the coffin lid shut."

Treville flinched at the last line, but disguised his reaction by rolling his eyes. "Take these to my office and lock them in. We have more pressing issues to address."

For bit by bit the musketeers appeared. First there was a trickle, soon they were a flood. All of them had dressed in the famous blue cloak and the ornate shoulder guard. Even when dragged out of bed in the middle of the night none of them dared appear before their (former) captain without the proper dress. Some of them looked at him out of bleary eyes, but only a sad few had trouble repressing a yawn. The chill of the night air and the thrill of the unknown night time emergency brought them to full alert.

Only once he was faced with a garrison courtyard packed full of soldiers did Treville reveal the enormous task they were to be sent on. The garrison fell silent as the musketeers listened. Underlying their orders was an electrifying air of change that they would be part of. Paris had not known a day like this since Richelieu had cleaned out Marie's court.

With Athos' help the musketeers were divided into squads and assigned to their targets. Treville watched from the wooden balcony as one by one they rode into the deserted streets knowing that the calm of night would soon be broken. Once the last of them had disappeared into the darkness he told Athos to take charge of the remaining musketeers on guard duty around the garrison and retreated into his office. Since he had not ordered the fireplace to be lit since his return it was dark inside and almost as cold as outside.

He had done everything that had been asked of him. Now it was up solely to Richelieu to make use of what the musketeers gave him. All that was left for Treville to do now was wait. Wait for the musketeers to report the completion of a successful arrest and hand in the papers from the Bastille that confirmed the incarceration of their targets. Wait while hoping no soldiers clad in different regimental colours would come rushing from the palace demanding to know what the musketeers were up to and to drag him to the Bastille instead instead of his targets. 

Exhaling a long breath Treville sat down behind his desk. It was still his desk; still his office. After all these months the king still had not appointed a new captain and now, perhaps, he never would. But even as he sat in darkness, contemplating his captaincy no soldiers appeared. He lit a candle and considered having a look over the Spanish letters despite his ignorance of the language when Anjou and Biscarrat returned and reported that the prison staff were prepared. 

He offered them a drink and sent them back outside.

Still there were no complaints about their actions, and no word from the palace, either reprimanding or triumphant. Still there was nothing for Treville to do. His musketeers either managed to carry out their orders or they didn't. His accompanying a single squad served them as much as his sitting in his office, and there was nothing he could do at the Palace either while Louis was intent to remain offended at his former captain.

It was all in Richelieu's hands and there was no way for Treville to help him further until he was called.

He snuffed the candles, let the letters be and headed onto the balcony where Athos watched as the remaining musketeers traded insults with the two Red Guards. Their words were laced with pure vitriol but had to be taken as friendly banter considering who was talking to whom. 

Athos looked at him expectantly. 

"Is everything in order, Captain?"

"These Spanish letters; you found them all in Rochefort's office at the palace?"

"We did, sir."

"You did not check the rooms he has use of in the Palais Cardinal? Or the cardinal's old offices?"

Athos tilted his head before shaking it slowly. "Not yet, sir."

Treville paused to consider his options, but not long enough to change his mind. "I'm going to the Palais Cardinal. If Milady shows herself, tell her to meet me there."

* * *

The one good side of King Louis' paranoia manifested in abandoned hallways and ghostly silence in the Royal apartments. The dignitaries who would usually have partaken in the ritual of the king's evening routine had been banished, as had seemingly most of the staff. The few people they did encounter shrank at Richelieu's approach as soon as they recognised him. At this point Richelieu no longer cared who saw him, he was at the palace. If the Palais Cardinal had been the true heart of French political power, the palace produced the life's blood that fuelled it, and Richelieu was here to reclaim it. He had abandoned cloak and hat and strode the hallways in his robes of office that swished about his ankles with every step. Let everyone who saw him at this hour report how the cardinal had returned like one of the Lord's avenging angels in flowing dress.

In the king's apartments the palace guard alone remained to oppose him, but they proved much more susceptible to the piece of paper ornamented with Rochefort's seal being flashed in front of their eyes than the ones at the city gate had been. 

It should have been a clue.

When he threw open the doors that would lead them to the antechamber to the king's bedroom, Richelieu was confronted by no one but the Lady Marguerite standing forlorn in the middle of the room, clutching a child's blanket. At the sound of his approach she turned around and stared at him with wide eyes, but the sight of the doors to the royal bedchamber bursting open from the inside and the king tumbling out, croaking, gagging, spitting foam, still surprised caught Richelieu by surprise. 

Marguerite screamed. 

Cahusac jumped over to her, pressing her against him and putting a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. The damage was done. 

Aramis rushed to the king's side and Richelieu remembered vaguely how Treville had once mentioned that the musketeer was handy to have around after a scrape. But what afflicted the king appeared hardly comparable to the aftermath of a brawl. 

His heart dropped as he watched his monarch struggle for air. The great King Henri's son. This stupid, naïve boy, whom Richelieu had abandoned. 

Marguerite started sobbing into Cahusac's chest.

Richelieu swallowed before he turned towards the remaining Red Guards. "Close the doors!" he hissed, but stopped them again almost immediately. He pushed the doors open, pretending he didn't see his hands shaking, and he faced the pair of palace guards that were headed for him with pikes drawn.

"Fetch the Royal physician!" His voice was just below a shout. The guards hesitated. 

"For heaven's sake, do as I say, your King's life depends on it!"

The men righted their weapons and hurried away. His heart pounding, Richelieu returned to the chamber where the King was still struggling to breathe. Aramis knelt next to him doing what he could. Here was a man who knew no timidity touching Royals. 

"Your Eminence." As through a veil of haze Richelieu realised it was Marguerite who spoke. Richelieu turned to her with caution. If he moved too fast the world would break.

"I remember," she said while the King wheezed. Her eyes were wide and wet as she sought his gaze. "Your Eminence, I remember." She took a shaky breath. "God forgives me." She had pushed herself up from Cahusac's chest, but there were still tears streaming down her face. "Please, tell me, Cardinal—" she sobbed. "The Lord is with me." 

Richelieu could feel a lump forming in his throat. "Yes, He sees you."

Louis groaned and behind the cardinal the door opened and closed again. From the corner of his eye he saw the court physician, Doctor Lemay, kneel down next to Aramis. 

"Your Eminence!" Cahusac tugged his sleeve to gain his attention. "I think you should leave. Now!"

Richelieu had no time to contemplate the wisdom of this suggestion as the doors to the antechamber were forced open and Rochefort stepped through. Red Guards poured into the room behind him drawing their swords as they flanked the minister.

"My," the Comte said as he surveyed the scene before him. "Let's see what we have here." His shimmering, dark cloak and the eye-patch made him look like a demon as he bared his teeth in a grin. 

"The infamous cardinal, risen up from his grave for a regicide. Whatever shall I do with you now?"

* * *

Treville chose Anjou and Biscarrat to accompany him on his way to the Palais Cardinal. He had decided to remove them from the garrison before the banter with his own men could turn into anything less friendly. But he had also taken two musketeers along, Bernadotte and Derodon, who had been understandably disappointed to have originally been relegated to guard duty while their brothers in arms rode out to support a coup.

Escorting their captain to break into the Palais Cardinal had to be at least more exciting than watching a gate. Although Treville hardly considered it breaking in as such, rather than using their variant of a spare key to look after Richelieu's things. Treville himself was not entirely sure what it was that he was looking for, but anything had to be better than being stuck at the garrison and doing nothing while Richelieu was not only risking the work of months at the palace, but ultimately his life.

Spurring on his horse Treville motioned his escort to change directions, taking the fastest way he knew to the palais, avoiding all streets too narrow to admit a cart or two horses passing each other, since he was a staunch follower of the old cavalry paradigm to never ride into an alley that you couldn't turn your horse around in. They turned into a long alley lined by residential buildings on both sides wide enough to admit a cart when Treville imagined the night was already becoming lighter, signalling the approaching dawn. It was at the next cross street that they caught up with Fauchet. 

The Vicomte must have realised who the approaching riders were much sooner, for he brought his carriage to a stop in the mouth of the alley, as though he did not want to risk them passing by him.

Treville also noticed the half dozen Red Guards that escorted the carriage in addition to the pair of guards that were following Fauchet out of the carriage. As Treville's party came to a halt he could not shake the feeling that the alley's horse-turning qualities were soon to be tested. The carriage escort all held their firearms at the ready.

"Monsieur de Treville. Are you heading for the Palais Cardinal? How convenient, so am I."

"If you're thinking about offering your carriage I must decline."

Fauchet took a deep breath before he continued. "It pains me to say this," he said in a way that made Treville doubt that he did, "but in the name of the First Minister of France it is my duty to arrest you."

Treville's expression froze.

"Who gave you the authority?" He scanned the impassive faces of the assembled Red Guards. "I know you, Graintaire." He fixed the soldier with a look. "Where's your captain?"

"His captain is at present keeping guard over the First Minister, in case the rebellious elements reappear that previously attempted to spirit away Her Majesty the Queen." 

Treville back turned to Fauchet, imagining that the night air had become colder. 

"I'm afraid your musketeers were involved. So if you could give up your sword quietly and join me willingly, I'm sure this will all be cleared up in no time."

"Give up my sword to you? Where's your warrant? If the First Minister wants me arrested, he can send a proper officer."

"Monsieur, please. You know as well as I we're on the same side." Fauchet's expression turned intense as his face took on a look of round-eyed innocence. "There has been a change in plans, but I'm sure you know of what I speak. You know who my master is."

Treville doubted that the Vicomte knew that Treville was only too aware of who this master was. Did Fauchet think he would believe this was a charade set up by Richelieu to smuggle him to the cardinal in a clandestine manner? If Richelieu had intended for Treville to trust the man they had identified as a traitor the cardinal would have found a way to tell him. But he had not. So his response was "no. This is not a legal arrest, I protest it. I'm not coming with you."

"Not even in exchange for your companions' lives?"

Treville's mouth fell open. For a moment he was too stumped to speak. That moment was all it took for his soldiers to take action, king's musketeers and cardinal's guards alike. They charged with a scream that might have originated from one throat.

Fauchet survived the discharge of their pistols by retreating behind his Red Guards and through the fact that those guards had already had their pistols drawn. The balls fired by the stricken riders went wild. 

"Captain, run!" Bernadotte musketeer called. Derodon had already fallen.

The question whether he would have followed that advice became entirely academic as his horse was hit in the chest and head by two pistol balls and went to its knees under him. He jumped off to avoid being trapped under the thrashing body that had not yet realised what had happened to it. Anjou was forced to reign in his horse sharply to avoid riding into the fallen horse, causing his mount to rear. It was the only reason why the pistol shot that hit his horse in the neck missed the rider instead.

Over the sound of the last pistol firing and the dying animals he heard Fauchet shouting. 

"Take Treville alive, kill the others!"

The remaining Red Guards' drew their rapiers soundlessly. With their pistols spent it was down to swords. Treville delayed drawing his own blade in favour of helping Anjou back to his feet from where he had fallen. Bernadotte stepped in front of them, weapon raised. 

He was forced to jump back as the first of the Red Guards lunged, and retaliated with a sweeping arc, but he could not hope to knock all his opponents' swords aside. He did not have to, when Treville made use of his pistol – which was the only one in the alley still loaded – and shot the first man turning to attack.

Leaving Anjou to steady himself Treville drew his rapier and joined the fray. Anjou joined a second later.

Somewhere off to the side Treville heard the groans of a wounded man, unable to tell whether it was Derodon or Biscarrat. A wave of anger dove him forward. There was nothing he could do for either of them now. He had to avoid making Richelieu's life even harder by getting captured. It was still three men against six, and in the narrow street Treville liked those odds.

"Give up," Fauchet called, sword drawn, but hanging back. Treville remembered that he was no soldier. "Give up and no one will be harmed."

"Go to hell!" Treville shouted as a Red Guard stabbed at him. Only moments before Fauchet had ordered everyone but him killed. He parried his opponent's sword thrust low, deflecting the blade to the inside so as not to give any of the other guards an opening. But it also meant his opponent's blade was still close.

Stepping back to gain room Treville drew his parrying dagger, but the next thrust already followed. This time Treville let the enemy blade run along his rapier, almost down to the cup before he pushed both swords outward in an upwards arc. It was too late for the Red Guard to arrest his forward movement and Treville pushed his dagger deep into the man's innards as the man lunged. 

Treville withdrew immediately, before another opponent could exploit the fact that both his weapons were engaged. The dead guard fell at his feet, and one of his colleagues, sword and dagger at the ready, immediately took his place. Treville was dimly aware that at his side one of his companions gasped in pain, but his new opponent was already on the attack.

Treville grunted as their swords clashed. The young man was strong and fast. He feinted low only to stab at the centre with a circular motion that turned the tip of his rapier into a blur. Treville had to use his dagger to deflect the sword, breathing hard, and his blade whined at the unlucky angle as both weapons chipped each other. He had not been lying to Richelieu when he had told him that he'd managed the riding to and from the chateau just fine, but his wound and the following idleness had cost him strength he had yet to regain.

The Red Guard took the opportunity to close with his own dagger and Treville had to drop his to catch the guard's wrist in time. With both their swords and left hands engaged Treville used a kick to free himself from their stalemate. His boot connected with his opponent's knee with a satisfying pop, making the young man shout out. Their swords disengaged through their violent separation and Treville gripped his rapier with both hands before he closed and ran his opponent through.

The Red Guard stared at him in shock. His hands gripped the blade that speared his torso, but his stare was already becoming glassy, and Treville's hold on the sword was the only thing that held the dead man upright as he collapsed. Treville gave his rapier a yank to pull it free from between the man's ribs, but it wouldn't budge. He groaned in shock. Another yank did nothing. He put his foot against the corpse's shoulder for leverage but had to abandon the blade at Fauchet's shout:

"Take Treville alive, damn you!"

It was the only warning he got, but it was enough to make him instinctually jump back causing the Red Guard rushing at him to collide with him sideways. They both went down, only just missing a house wall.

Treville caught himself on his elbows but his healing shoulder immediately exploded in agony. He cried out without conscious thought. Sparks of pain blinded his eyes and gave the Red Guard who landed on top of him plenty of time to recover from his fall first. Treville had hardly sat up before something smashed into the side of his head. He gasped but staid conscious, throwing his hands out with a soldier's instinct and snatching one of his opponent's hands by the wrist. He growled as he used his entire weight to topple his attacker to the side

"Stop!" 

Treville had no mind to halt and look who was shouting while he was occupied fending of the Red Guard who was reaching for his neck. He was wresting his opponent's arm down, but could feel his shoulder protest the movement. The resulting pain threatened to kill his strength. Already he was breathing hard.

In a desperate move Treville struck out at his opponent's face pushing his thumb under his nose and up. The guard let go of him with a yelp, and Treville shoved him away, rising onto his knees and then using the nearby house wall to pull himself to his feet. He needed to catch his breath. But there was no time. His opponent did not bother standing up properly before he charged at Treville and pushed him against the wall.

"Stop!"

Treville bucked and kicked, but his opponent stilled all on his own. 

Finally Treville realised who it was who was calling. He turned his head and saw that Anjou, Fauchet, and of Rochefort's Red Guards were the only other people left standing. The guards dropped his weapon as he saw Anjou stand in front of Fauchet, arm outstretched, resting the killing point of his rapier at the disarmed Vicomte's throat.

Treville punched the stunned guard before him in the stomach and grabbed the hilt of the rapier at the Red Guard's belt. In the same moment he gave him a kick for some extra distance and in one fluid moment the sword slipped free of its sheath. Treville raised the blade to the level of its owner's throat, mirroring Anjou.

Anjou turned his head only briefly to confirm that the fighting had stopped, before he focused back on Fauchet. Treville and the remaining Red Guards were just inside his field of vision. "Throw down your remaining weapons or I'll—" The pistol ball found his head before he could finish his sentence. 

Treville whirled around to find who had fired the shot – sweeping the rapier in a wide arc to keep his opponent back – and saw Fauchet's reinforcements approaching from the far end of the alley. Had the patrol happened upon them by mere chance? Or had it been Fauchet's initial plan to keep them talking until they caught up?

At the other end of the street, close by Fauchet, where Anjou had fallen, Treville could see Bernadotte moving on the ground, clutching his bleeding thigh. Someone else moaned.

Treville turned his eyes back to the approaching soldiers, the whole half dozen of them, and feeling bile rising in his throat, he lowered his rapier. He might at least save one life. 

"It's over Fauchet. Just take care of my men." 

A nervous laugh echoed through the alley as Fauchet's only response. Anjou's bood, turned inky black by the colourless light of the passing night covered the Vicomte from head to torso. Again Treville remembered that Fauchet was no soldier.

Sensing that the newly arrived guards were waiting for a clue he took a deep breath and threw away his sword. It struck the cobbles with a tight sound.

The sword's owner immediately thanked him by slamming his fist into the side of Treville's face. He fell against the house wall, but the Red Guard followed. Grabbing him by his hair and shoulder the guard pushed him flat onto the ground, pressing a knee into his back to hold him down. Treville turned his face as much as he could to avoid tasting the wet, Parisian mud. He could feel his pulse racing in his temples and forced himself to breathe evenly.

A number of boots advanced on him.

"You're right, Monsieur. It is over." One of the pairs of boots evidentially belonged to Fauchet. The Vicomte sounded quiet but short of breath. Treville didn't know whether the man expected him to reply, but although talking was hard with your faced pressed to the ground, he still tried:

"Go bugger a horse, Fauchet."

Naturally he could not see Fauchet's expression, but the kick to his ribs that drove the breath from Treville's lungs was enough of an answer. He heard the Vicomte clear his throat as he swallowed a cry of pain. "Tie him up and gag him. We'll find proper shackles for you once we're at the barracks at the Palais Cardinal, _Captain_. That's where you wanted to go, isn't it?" 

Despite being outnumbered and the weight top of him Treville could not stop keep himself from struggling as they pulled his arms onto his back and crossed his wrists to tie them. A stab of pain shot through his entire body radiating from his injured shoulder as they twisted his limbs. When he couldn't hold back a pain filled groan any longer someone forced a rag between his teeth and secured it with a strip of leather, driving tears of frustration into his eyes. Finally he was pulled up onto his feet and brought face to face with Fauchet. 

It looked like the Vicomte had attempted to wipe his face clean but had missed a smudge of gore on one of his cheekbones. Even in the darkness before dawn the smear stood out stark against the paleness of his skin.

"This is your fault, Monsieur. Why did you have to attack?" He sighed, sounding as if he drew every breath from the depths of his being. "Perhaps once we're at the Palais we can chat about our mutual friend?"

For lack of greater articulation Treville growled at him. In response the Vicomte summoned a cracked smile to his gore stained face and motioned for the guards to carry on.

As he was pushed towards the carriage Treville heard Fauchet tell one of the guards to take care of their dead. He uttered no word on whether the fallen musketeers or the cardinal's guards were included in that.

A faint moan could be heard from across the street as if to underline his point and Treville felt his heart being to pound. Fauchet could not leave them lying here.

"I'm afraid we don't have room to take them with us." 

Treville twisted in the arms of his captors' in time to see Fauchet exchange a look with another one of his guards.

 _No!_ Treville screamed into his gag, kicking out, straining against the hands that held him despite the dizziness. He feared he was going to vomit as his legs were kicked out from under him and he lurched back towards the ground. But despite his protests, apart from him, Fauchet and his Red Guards, the alley was silenced.

"Pick him up," Fauchet said into the stillness of the night. His voice sounded gentle.


	11. You Will Go Hungry, part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news! The rest of the fic is written! Unfortunately, as the as of yet unposted parts turned out way longer than planned, I've decided to post them in more than two parts, to guarantee more managable chapter sizes. On the one hand this means there's going to be more parts than the previously estimated 12, but on the other hand, as they're all written - only missing some tweaking - this means they'll be posted within days of each other rather than weeks. Oh joy! :D
> 
> Anyway, here's the first part of the finale.

"It really is the cardinal!"

Rochefort shut up his red guards with a glare. 

"When I was told you were still alive and would return I could hardly believe it. But here you are; caught observing the fruits of your heinous crime."

It was hard to listen to Rochefort's mirthful gloating while their monarch lay on the ground moaning. Still Richelieu faced his adversary with his head raised – it saved him from having to watch the king fighting for air on the floor. 

He did not want to know what it was exactly that Lemay was doing to the king while Aramis held Louis down for him. He did not need to see those unnatural colours on the king's face again. It was enough to hear him cough and sob, followed by a wet noise that made the cardinal's bones shiver. Bile boiled deep in Richelieu's body as Rochefort demonstrated the gall to look concerned. 

"You sound very confident of my guilt considering you have no proof." Despite his haughty tone Richelieu could not deny that the numbers were stacked against him. The Comte's sweet smile was backed by ten Red Guards flanking him with their swords drawn, as well as the two Palace Guards that Richelieu had sent for Lemay earlier. Just outside of the doors he could make out the shiny helmets of even more soldiers attired in the red of the cardinal's former guard, while Richelieu was left with two guards, Cahusac, and an occupied musketeer.

By his side, at the edge of his field of vision, he could see Cahusac's expression turn to stone as the captain faced his former subordinates, not few of whom looked to be ill at ease. They were holding their erstwhile captain at sword-point as well as their employer – the man they had once sworn an oath to – while their king lay in agony before them. Rochefort's captain, who Richelieu recognised as one of Cahusac's former lieutenants named Villefort, in particular looked sick. Cahusac nodded at him in recognition. 

Whatever Lemay had pulled out of his physician's bag to give the king had changed the noises Louis from choking to gagging. Richelieu was unsure of what that meant, but Rochefort didn't appear overly worried and continued to smile.

"You're the one who'll deliver all the proof I need. Believe me, Your Eminence, extracting your confession will be a pleasure. If you knew of the means I came to know so intimately in my exile you'd admit anything I wanted here and now."

"Instead of making wild accusations your duty should be to your king!" Richelieu barked, taking care exactly how Rocehfort's guards reacted. They all looked as grim as if Death herself were in the room with them. In a sense it was.

"It looks like the good Doctor has the case well in hand, now that he has taken over from the musketeer you brought with you to seal my king's fate." Rochefort's voice was pleasant as he spoke, in stark contrast to the king's pained moans. "I have no doubts that the Lady Marguerite will attest to that." 

The Comte's icy blue eyes focused on the woman who stood beside Cahusac. Her tears had been dried by shock, and as she stared back at him she clutched the child's blanket tighter. 

"How curious," he said, turning back to Richelieu with a glance at Aramis, and stepped closer. Doing so meant he ended up having to look up at the cardinal. "How curious," he repeated as he immediately retreated a couple of steps, "to see you employing musketeers. I wonder what Treville will have to say in his defence."

Richelieu's heart skipped at the mention of Treville, but he didn't dare to let it show on his face. He didn't dare to blink.

"I wish to move him back into his bedchamber," said Lemay into the resulting silence. "If you would lend me a soldier…" But Rochefort ignored him. It was Villefort who ordered a man to help Aramis and Lemay to aid the king.

"For now," Rochefort continued in a smooth tone, as if to hide his disappointment at the cardinal's lack of a reaction, "it's my pleasure to arrest you."

"I doubt it." 

Rochefort sneered at him with a reaised eyebrow. "Pardon?" A silence fell over the chamber once more, until Rochefort laughed. "I have you outnumbered. The proof of your betrayal lies at your feet. Do you honestly think you can defy me? I am the First Minister of France, invested by the king."

"So am I," Richelieu said calmly, raising a hand to his collar. At his finger glinted a ring just like the one worn by Rochefort.

Rochefort bared his teeth: "I carry out the king's orders. I act on his authority. My orders are his!"

"The king is currently in no shape to issue orders." As if to underline the cardinal's words Louis groaned as Aramis and the Red Guard picked him up. 

In one smooth movement Richelieu lowered his hand and produced a folded envelope, sealed with red wax. "But I carry the seal of the Queen, and, oh, it's on your arrest warrant." 

Rochefort hissed. He advanced on the cardinal reaching for his rapier, but he stopped when he became aware of his guards remaining immobile, the queen's seal acting as a powerful charm. Blood shot into his face as he turned on them: 

"Arrest him!"

"Minister," Villefort could be heard saying, licking dry lips. "I feel it is my duty to examine Her Majesty's order."

"Shut up! The queen has fled her house arrest. Clearly she is in on this plot." Rochefort faced Richelieu with nostrils flaring. Not even the cardinal's own reduced guard dared to move. 

"Tell me, did you plan it with her?" He laughed again, but this time the grin stuck on his face in an ugly snarl. "Is she your lover too?"

The entire group was forced to take a step back as the king was carried past the crowd into his bedroom. As he vanished from their sight Louis looked up with wet eyes, appearing no more lucid than he had been when he had fallen into the chamber with foam at his mouth. He moaned again and it sounded like "Armand!"

"There you have it! The king is calling the name of his murderer!" Rochefort grabbed a guard by the shoulder and shoved him towards Richelieu. But instead of making a move to arrest him, the soldier looked to his captain, whose face remained impassive.

Upon seeing this, the tender skin surrounding Rochefort's eye-patch turned red with wrath. "Arrest him, damn you! He poisoned your king!" He turned to the person standing behind Richelieu, who had remained quiet until now, his eye flashing. "The Lady Marguerite is a witness!"

Faced with the bared teeth of this tiger the lady trembled. "No," she croaked and Rochefort's eyes went round. 

"No!" Her tears had started to flow again, but this time her speech remained unbroken by sobs. "The name of his murderer is Rochefort! Rochefort and Marguerite!" 

"What are you saying?" Rochefort's voice had become a whisper. With brisk steps he closed in on Marguerite, but Cahusac stopped him with a hand pressed against his chest. White with anger Rochefort grabbed the offending limb in an attempt to shove it off, but Cahusac pushed him back, until he found the point of Villefort's rapier pointing at his collar. 

"Please don't make me do this, Captain," Villefort said. Around the hard set of his mouth the Red Guard looked ghostly pale.

Cahusac unhanded Rochefort, but the display had been enough to turn Marguerite's voice firm: "Rochefort handed me the poison!" Her fevered gaze swept across the crowd in front of her, pleading. "He ordered me to poison my King, but I refused, so he did it himself."

"This is your ruin, wench!" Rochefort turned to his Red Guards and pointed at Richelieu. "She's mad! Arrest Richelieu! He's a traitor to the crown!"

Marguerite threw out her arm to support herself against the wall as she watched the guards raise their swords, but she would not be silenced: "Rochefort is the murderer!"

"Shut up! The woman is mad!" 

Speaking up, Richelieu raised the document carrying Anne's seal. "Red Guards, arrest the Comte de Rochefort. The charge is treason!"

"This man has no authority here! Guards!"

It had to be obvious even to him that so far his guards had made no move to subdue Richelieu other than raising their swords. Even Villefort kept his attention focused on Cahusac and his back turned towards his minister. 

"You left this position." Rochefort's white hot anger had become quiet as he growled at Richelieu. "You died."

"Do I look dead to you?" Richelieu forced himself to continue to breathe easily, to keep his wrath to a simmer. At his side he heard Marguerite choke back a sob.

"It seems to me you usurped a position that wasn't free to be taken and now you're attempting to free another one through the same murderous means. Look at your guards! They distrust your orders. They don't believe you're as innocent as you say."

Rochefort faced his men spitting but did not repeat his order. When he turned back towards Richelieu the cardinal stood before him immovable like a statue.

Rochefort's anger was not yet spent, but it was running desperate. 

"I am the First Minister! I act in the king's name. The king demands you answer for your crimes, Richelieu! Answer in front of your king!"

It was Marguerite who took the first step forward, her eyes hard as glass. "The king you sent to bed with poison?" 

Rochefort opened his mouth, teeth showing, frozen. With a roar he shook himself out of his stupor, and both he and Cahusac, who stared down the blade of his former lieutenant, voiced their orders at the same time:

"Guards, move! What are you waiting for? Arrest the Comte!"

"In the name of the king, guards, arrest the cardinal and all who stand with him!"

The pair of palace guards were the first to move on Rochefort's orders but faltered when the Red Guards remained frozen. Except for two, who advanced, turned around, and came to stand with their backs in front of Richelieu, swords raised.

A mere second later Villefort turned his sword away from Cahusac and turned it on Rochefort.

After the trickle came the flood. The spell broke and the rest of the guards followed suite all at once until Rochefort found himself surrounded by a circle of glimmering sword points. The palace guards simply laid down their pikes. 

"This is mutiny!" Rochefort stared at his guards in open-mouthed shock. "You're all going to hang for this!"

Not a sword wavered, and it was Richelieu's turn to smile.

"I rather believe promotions are in order. As for you," he added, regarding Rochefort with a raised eyebrow, "attempted regicide, laying hand on the queen without her express consent, espionage, and blackmail. It looks like the only execution will be yours." There were teeth in his smile. "Perhaps once _you_ see what means I possess to extract information you will confess willingly."

"No!" Rochefort's right hand flew to his rapier, but surrounded by the Red Guards he did not even have enough room to draw. 

"Don't kill him. He deserves a trial."

"No!" Rochefort launched himself at the guard directly in front of him. "I will not be locked up again!"

The guard had to lower his weapon to avoid spearing him as Rochefort lunged. Crashing into him the Comte grabbed the man's hands, wrestling for the sword. But the guard's brothers-in-arms were upon him immediately. Throwing down their weapons they forced Rochefort to the floor with their bare hands. He attempted to clutch at the daggers in their sheaths but it was to no avail. 

Once the weight of the men atop him had shut down the Comte's struggling, Richelieu stepped closer ensuring that Rochefort could see him while Rochefort continued to rave and scream under the pile of soldiers pressing him to the ground.

"You will regret this," Rochefort hiss, red-faced.

But Richelieu merely smiled at him and turned to Villefort instead, waving the queen's orders at him. "I believe you wished to inspect these." 

Villefort stared first at him, then at the document, but he regained his composure almost immediately. Once he had pried open the seal with his dagger he began to read and his eyes opened even wider. He handed the document back with a reverential touch. 

"I— The queen." He looked away. "The king holds the queen in discredit; these orders—"

Cahusac placed a hand on his former lieutenant's shoulder.

"Her Majesty is still the Queen of France. Once the king is fit to hear out Her Majesty, and the Lady Marguerite's confession, he'd throw you into the Bastille for not obeying her orders."

Villefort took a deep breath. Richelieu's cool grey eyes met his and the cardinal decided to give him a final push.

"Until then you may put your mind at rest knowing you're acting on behalf on the First Minister of France."

"So you are returned then, Your Eminence?" 

"It appears so." Richelieu smiled. "The tale of my return will spread soon enough, but right now we have to safeguard the king and his government."

Villefort saluted. "Do you want us to take him to the Bastille?"

"Traitor!" Rochefort hissed.

"Oh, do shut up, Rochefort." Richelieu did not bother to turn and look at him while he summoned his most bored voice. "You won't be imprisoned for long, once the king learns the truth, your assault on Her Royal Majesty and your hand in the king's poisoning will be punished like any other form of high treason. Remind me what the punishment is for attempted regicide, Captain."

Cahusac and Villefort started to speak at the same time, but Villefort eventually deferred to his former commander.

"It's quartering, Your Eminence."

"Yes, a grisly sight." Richelieu pretended to sigh. "On the bright side the spectators will be telling their descendants of it for generations." 

He made a show of folding up the queen's orders and handing them back to Villefort. There would be no coming back for Rochefort this time. 

"Don't bother with the Bastille for now. It is better for him to stay close enough for us to keep an eye on him here. The Royal apartments are abandoned save for the king's guards?"

Villefort confirmed.

"Then take the Comte to a nice, empty chamber under close guard and lock him in. Preferably it'll be a room without windows. Oh, and send someone to the queen's apartments to confirm Her Majesty is well."

As Villefort nodded and ordered his guards to the task, Richelieu had to fight to hide a smile of satisfaction. However, the Comte refused to go quietly. He struggled, hissing and spitting, and had to be dragged and shoved out of the room. Richelieu was going to enjoy not having to deal with him for a couple of hours. 

No sooner had the doors been closed behind Rochefort by the handful of guards remaining behind, that Richelieu saw Cahusac offer his hand to Villefort and draw him into a one-armed hug. 

It was at that moment that Aramis poked his head out of the king's bedchamber. "Pardon the interruption, but we could not help but overhear some of what was shouted. The king is stable," he said and Richelieu found himself exhaling noisily in relief. "But it would help to know the exact kind of poison that was used."

The musketeer took one step into the antechamber, hat in hands and looked at Marguerite. She had remained so quiet after her outburst at Rochefort that Richelieu had forgotten all about her. Now it was impossible to tell what went through her mind as she stood face to face with the man who had pretended to be her lover. There were too many emotions present on her face to pick just one to describe.

However, Aramis' face showed only concern. "Do you still have it?" he asked and Marguerite stared at him in horror. "Please, if I know the poison it will help us save him."

"The flask remains on the cabinet in the next room, where Rochefort left it." Her eyes were fixed firmly onto the floor as she spoke. "I'll fetch it."

"Thank you, Madame."

As Marguerite walked away Aramis remained standing in front of the door, waiting, and Richelieu caught his gaze. 

"How is His Majesty, really?"

"Doctor Lemay is convinced he is going to survive with no lasting effects on his health. We purged his stomach as well as we could and found no injury to his oesophagus or to the windpipe, but he is weak and needs rest."

Richelieu suddenly found his throat dry. He noticed he had already taken a step towards the bedchamber. "May I speak with him?"

"I'll ask Doctor Lemay." 

"You realise it is vital that I speak with him?" Richelieu had to stop himself from simply ordering Cahusac to remove the musketeer so he could enter.

"The king needs rest."

Richelieu sighed. "He'll also be in a susceptible enough state to forgive his wife."

Aramis' eyes widened in understanding, and at the same time Marguerite returned, hovering near the entrance she had just passed through. Cahusac took the flask from her and handed it to the musketeer, who disappeared back into the bedchamber with a bow.

Richelieu heard Marguerite sigh. She had abandoned the child's blanket sometime since Rochefort's arrest, but her gaze was still directed at the floor. 

"Madame, perhaps you should go and look after the Dauphin."

Her dark blue eyes widened surprise. "But I admitted that I—"

"You did everything that was asked of you." 

Marguerite was not satisfied with this answer. "Rochefort swore he wouldn't give him enough to kill him," she said, sounding dull and detached. "Still I meant to warn the king, but Rochefort was there, insisting—"

Richelieu walked up to her taking her hands in his. 

"My child, we will speak about this in time, but right now I have more pressing concerns, such as the king's well-being. You will remain with the Dauphin in the Royal Apartments?"

Her eyes flew open, gazing at his hands.

"Of course. But, Cardinal—"

"Then I trust you will keep your word, as you did before, with God's blessing."

"Yes, Your Eminence." 

He saw fresh tears glitter under her lashes.

"Remember what I told you, and save yourself from despair."

"Yes. Thank you, Your Eminence."

With quick, small steps Maurgerite disappeared to where Richelieu assumed the Dauphin was sleeping. 

"Shouldn’t we watch her?" Cahusac appeared at his side, but the cardinal shook his head at him.

"I doubt she is going to disappear on us. She's too broken too run away. But keep a guard on her and the Dauphin regardless, and place one man inside the chamber at all times. Just in case the Comte has one more trick up his sleeve."

They both looked at Captain Villefort, who nodded and followed the lady with the remaining four red guards.

Richelieu watched them as they disappeared from view. 

"It looks like I'm going to have two captains from now on."

After a pause that only lasted for about two seconds Cahusac responded "Villefort is a good man." His kept up his usual stony, impassive mien as he spoke. "I'd hate to see him demoted, even for form's sake. If you'd prefer to take him on instead—"

"Don't be silly, Cahusac, I won't dismiss either of you. I'll figure out what to do with you once I know where we stand with His Majesty."

"He recognised you."

"Yes." Richelieu swallowed. Speaking with Louis was both a task he yearned for as well as a task he dreaded. 

How long did it take for Aramis to ask for permission? If only the king hadn't fallen asleep. 

Of course, their concern for the king's health should trump everything else, but without his explicit support Richelieu's position could still be challenged. Without the king's support the queen's order given both to him and Treville could be declared unlawful. Without the king's support they could all face charges of treason.

"The two guards," he began in order to distract himself, "who first…"

"They're ours, Your Eminence. Two of mine. Always with the Comte, like you ordered." 

Richelieu could hear the proud smile in Cahusac's voice without even having to look, but the captain turned serious again.

"If you don't mind my asking, Your Eminence, but what did you tell the Lady Marguerite when you had Boileau bring her to the chateau?"

The corner of Richelieu's mouth rose in remembrance. "I promised to defend her against Rochefort's claims of her indiscretion with Aramis. In exchange I asked her to continue to do everything the Comte demanded and to record it for me." It had not been hard to convince her, for all he had to do was to promise her what no other man or woman had ever offered her, which was protection. "I tasked her to follow Rochefort's orders without protesting too much. For whatever would be asked of her God would be with her, see her, and forgive her."

"Even allowing Rochefort to poison the king?"

"A tall promise, I know, perhaps if I knew then to what depravity Rochefort would stoop I would have worded it differently. But His Majesty is alive, which should lighten the weight of her decisions. And who but God can uplift those of us made small by despair?" 

He turned his head back to the door the king rested behind.

There was much to be done, and Richelieu needed Louis to live to be able to do it. He needed his royal support above all else - it was what they had come to the palace for, and without it their position remained precarious. Even Anne's signature and seal could be rendered meaningless as soon as someone investigated the charges Rochefort laid against her. Or, if Louis died, as soon as someone like Gaston snatched her powers away as regent. 

Richelieu had never thought it possible, but at the moment the queen was his only protection against those forces within the nation that would see him dead. 

So even though there was work to be done Richelieu took the time to calm his breath, force his hands to still at his sides, and to close his eyes in silent prayer while they waited for Aramis or Lemay to return and bring word from the king's sickbed. 

Sound died around Richelieu; time slowed. At his side Cahusac persisted as if frozen and Richelieu blocked out even the sound of his breathing. 

The minutes passed until he opened his eyes to the sound of a door opening. It was only Villefort who passed through the room to go and check on Rochefort.

Richelieu returned to waiting.

"Should we inform the queen?" Cahusac asked and Richelieu's first instinct was to decline. But as he reminded himself the queen was their ally now and no doubt dying to know how their plan was progressing – which it was not all.

In the end he was delayed from making a decision when Aramis reappeared from the Royal bedchamber. 

"The doctor says you may see him, Your Eminence."

The loudness of the sigh of relief he emitted embarrassed Richelieu.

"He's exhausted and accordinlg in a highly emotional state," Aramis added in a whisper when Richelieu passed by him into the chamber. Richelieu had nothing to reply to that. 

But Louis had a lot to say to him as Richelieu approached the bed.

"Cardinal?"

The bedchamber was lit only by means of the candles resting on night stands to both sides of the head of the bed, and the cracking fireplace, since there had been no time to call for a servant to lower and light the chandelier. But even in the warm, orange light of the small candle flames the King's face looked pale and waxen, and dried tears had left visible tracks on his cheeks. The sweat of sickness had been wiped from his brow but its presence was still evident in how his hair clung to his skin.

It was hard to believe how much younger Louis was than Richelieu when one looked into the royal face at that moment. 

"Your Majesty," Richelieu managed, croaking more than he wished, and he bowed his head. 

"When I heard your voice I knew I must be close…" Louis' voice trailed off and let out a dry cough. 

Richelieu turned his head slightly, fixing the other two men in the room with a meaningful look and they both left. 

"But if I'm dead," Louis continued, his voice thready, "why won't this pain go away?" Almost knocking over a candle the king gestured weakly with one hand, blindly reaching for the cup on his night stand. Richelieu handed it to him.

The king took a sip and lowering the cup said, "you're not who I expected to see."

Richelieu cleared his throat. "This might be because you're not dead and I'm neither Lucifer nor St. Peter."

"It really is you!" The dim candlelight illuminated the laugh lines that furrowed the tear-stained skin around Louis' eyes. "How? But it can't be." His voice turned dark and heavy. "My good friend would never leave me as you did, only to return to me like this!" New tears threatened to spring from his eyes. "How could he?"

"It was never my intent to abandon you for so long." Richelieu felt himself swallow. He had been afraid of this moment: there was no time for Louis to be upset and play the unforgiving. "When you last saw me I truly was very sick. Rochefort had done to me what he attempted to do to you tonight."

"Rochefort?" Richelieu watched Louis screw his eyes shut. "No! Rochefort is the only one who stood by me." 

"But I'm afraid it is so. He was your friend only until he was close enough to poison you, just as he had me poisoned."

"I won't hear it!" 

"In all the years I have stood by you, have I ever given you advice so ill minded that you would now have reason to doubt my word?"

Even as the king balled his fists and averted his face Richelieu remained calm. After a moment or two, Louis grunted in frustration. "Why? Why did you disappear on me, Armand?"

"I was sick for a while before I realised I had been poisoned, but I had no idea who was responsible at the time. I had to remove myself from Paris and let the world think I had died to gain the space I needed to uncover the truth. If I had acted any differently, had I recovered under their eyes before I knew their identity they simply would have tried again."

"And it was Rochefort who did this? But he was in prison!"

"A cover. So no one would suspect he was acting on behalf of Spain. Rochefort did not need to be in France to orchestrate my doom. Rochefort's intricate knowledge of the inner workings of my palais allowed the Spanish spymaster to arrange my poisoning while the Comte was still far from Paris."

"Spain?" In the flickering candlelight Richelieu saw Louis frown. "But Rochefort told me of Anne's letters to her brother. If he was a Spanish agent he would have supported these letters!"

"Did she not tell you that it was Rochefort who advised her to write them in the first place? That it was Rochefort who exploited a mother's momentary weakness and worry for her— for your son to discredit her in your eyes and the eyes of France?"

Despite his obvious fatigue the king's eyes widened and Richelieu knew he would win. 

"I can hardly believe this. It sounds like such a wild tale. Yet, you've returned to me so miraculously."

"Rochefort was my spy first, at the Spanish Court, but it appears the Spanish made him a better offer." No need to admit that that offer like was survival, an end to torture, and the promise of revenge. "There are papers documenting his service to us," he continued, "I'll show them to you once you're better. In the morning, if you wish."

"No!" Louis sat up so quickly that Richelieu had to catch him by one shoulder to stop him from doing himself an injury.

"Now! Please, show me now." He shook off the cardinal's hands. "If he used me so shamefully— I won't be able to close an eye with these thoughts in my head. Not before I see proof of his duplicity."

Richelieu bowed his head again, this time as though he had been chastised, as though he was giving in to a demand he disliked. With careful movements Richelieu produced one of the scrolls he had taken from the archives at the Palais Cardinal and held a candle for Louis as he read. The king had not even unrolled all of the papers before he threw his head back onto the pillows. 

"I'm a fool," he whispered and Richelieu could see a fresh tear drawing a line from the corner of his eye to his ear. 

"Rochefort is good at making a fool of anyone." Richelieu tried not to think of Treville as he spoke. He need to remain calm and above all as comforting as a man like him could manage. "His apparent imprisonment disguised his role as a double agent rather well, but eventually he overreached himself. He used one of my former associates to betray Perales – she was shamefully forced into his service under blackmail, sire. I never employed assassins, but Rochefort turned her into one. To hear her heartfelt confession was nearly enough to send me back to my sickbed."

"Perales' murder was his work, too?" Louis sucked in air sharply. "He forced me to dismiss Treville over it." 

"I know." Swallowing again Richelieu attempted to collect his thoughts. "Rochefort could suffer no man as loyal as Treville at your side if he was to gain your favour."

He paused to allow Louis to regain control of face and blink away another tear. 

"After the cowardly attempt on my life it took me months to recover my health. But once I had regained most of my senses I put all my resources into finding the man responsible so that I could return to my king's side with the utmost haste." 

"Of course you did." The king's frown turned into a smile. "You've always been my friend, Armand." Another fit of coughing took hold of him and when he continued talking after Richelieu had helped him drink again his expression had turned serious once more. "You should have told me. I would have executed him on the spot."

"Ah." Richelieu's own expression turned fond. "But we didn't know who poisoned me at the time. And if we had found the poisoner we still wouldn't have known who paid him."

"But now we do." A sigh. "What will we do about Rochefort?"

"I have taken the liberty to put him under guard. My agents are moving against those he seduced into his services as we speak, but the decision of how he is to be punished is up to you."

Louis eyes became small and not just from exhaustion. "I don't know. You did right to arrest him." But the hardness left his eyes and his expression became soft. "I don't know when I'll be able to face him."

Richelieu had to force himself to keep from frowning, as he could not deny that he had hoped for more explicit support. But then Louis continued: "I'm so glad you returned to me before my death. You—" another cough— "will take care of my son, make him a great king."

Richelieu's eyes widened, only for a second. "You're not going to die, Sire." But he could not help the furrows that appeared on his brow and Louis did not appear to listen: 

"I wanted to be there for him, so much." 

At that he was overcome by tears once more as Richelieu sat and watched him, at a loss for what to do except repeating himself. "You are not going to die. Doctor Lemay neutralised the poison and you will live to see your son again."

Despite these words it took long minutes before the spell passed, and once he had dried his tears on the bed clothes Louis looked even more haggard. Richelieu straightened his back, steeling himself against the sight and shoving aside any thoughts of the fathers and kings they had both lost. 

"There is one small matter, before I can do anything for your son."

Confused eyes turned to him as the cardinal leaned in close again. 

"You must confirm that I'm your First Minister."

Louis furled his ashen brow. "Of course," he said.

"And Rochefort has to be cast down and deposed by his king."

Louis repeated himself with a weak expression and lifted a hand to rub his sore eyes: "Yes."

"There is something I need to you to sign to confirm all of it."

"Armand, you always have all the answers," was all that the king said as Richelieu produced yet another paper, this one already prepared in the queen's presence back at the chateau. But Louis did not sound sarcastic or suspicious. Such feelings were evidently beyond him at the moment. 

He signed but held on to the document for a long moment.

"This might be the last royal orders I ever give," he said and sighed, and Richelieu could not decide whether the king sounded unhappy. 

"You are not going to die," the cardinal repeated. But even so Louis studied his signature closely, taking in every curve of his penstroke before he let go of the paper.

"I need to see Anne."

"You need rest."

"I need to see Anne, now!" But even Louis' voice of command was weak now. "I need her to know I forgive her," he added more softly. "I want to tell her myself."

"I will send for her." Despite the protestations he had voiced earlier the cardinal could not suppress a spark of excitement as he rose. 

"And Treville." 

Richelieu froze just as he bowed and turned to leave. His excitement did not dwindle as the king went on.

"But later. First I need to see Anne. And then I'll need to sleep."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

When Richelieu stepped back into the bright antechamber he found the guard he had sent to the queen's apartments had returned. According to him the queen was safe and unharmed, but confined to her quarters around which Red Guards had been positioned on Rochefort's order. D'Artagnan and Porthos were still with her, having elected to guard the Queen's apartments from the inside. Apparently the Comte had not been to see her before ambushing Richelieu and naturally the single guard had not dared to try and convince his brothers-in-arms of the miraculous change in command. This task required a little more authority and so Richelieu sent both Cahusac and Villefort to invite Queen Anne to the king's rooms. 

"Tell her as much as you feel is prudent about the king's condition. He will need to rest soon in order to recover, but under the circumstances we mustn't neglect to consider how much good her wifely presence will do him."

Once the Red Guards left Richelieu found himself confronted by Aramis. Doctor Lemay had slipped back into the Royal bedchamber, but the musketeer had remained outside, standing guard over the door.

"Did your plan work?" The musketeer asked. "Is the king on our side?"

"As he is ready to forgive Her Majesty, I believe so."

Aramis' entire body relaxed in relief.

Since they were alone Richelieu allowed himself to raise an eyebrow at Aramis.

"I'm surprised you didn't ask to go with them."

"While my king still might have need of me?"

Richelieu graced him with a mock-smile making Aramis respond with a snarl:

"What do you want from me?" The musketeer did not raise his voice and his tone stayed civil, but Richelieu could taste the venom between the words. "Why do you keep on reminding me? Is this your way of telling me that once Rochefort is gone you will take over the blackmailing? Is it that?" 

"I have no idea what you're alluding to."

"No idea? I can tell you—"

"If you still haven't noticed," Richelieu interrupted him, "I have made it my goal to raise a stable, centralised and strong government guided by a powerful monarchy that won't one day find someone like Gaston or Marie de Medici at its head, or any other person who would sell themselves to our enemies for peace and power." 

"Or who would try to kill you," Aramis cut in without any humour in his voice.

"The simplest way to safeguard this monarchy is through a son. The Dauphin is that son — he is the _king_ 's son. And that's all that matters to me."

As he paused Richelieu made sure Aramis was looking at him.

"If anyone were to dispute or threaten the legitimacy of his lineage, I'll gladly see to it that they meet the same fate as Rochefort and his wild accusations. I hope I have made myself clear?"

Aramis glowered, so Richelieu continued to elaborate: "After the number of tragic miscarriages the Queen suffered, troublesome elements were already whispering about the King begging the pope to be allowed to set her aside."

"For the likes of Charlotte Mellendorf?"

Richelieu shrugged. "Luckily the Dauphin's birth has ended all such rumours and once Rochefort's claims have been refuted our gracious queen will reside at the king's side more safely than before. Unless careless individuals give the king reason to doubt Her Majesty."

Aramis replied through a thin smile: "Then we are on the same side, Your Eminence." 

"So." Richelieu returned that closed-mouth smile. "To answer your initial questions: No. It was not my intent to imply anything. I was simply curious why you would refuse to take the first chance to make yourself scarce. Or are you sticking around because you'd prefer to seek out Lady Marguerite instead—?"

Aramis crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You're vile."

"—to tell her how sorry you are."

"I did nothing to her she didn't agree to." Aramis did not deign to look at the cardinal. "You can't foist all the blame on me."

"Did you tell her you'd never marry her before you started your affair?" 

"What business is that of yours?"

"Well, marriage usually is the safest way to avoid scandal."

Aramis faced him again with a wild look in his eyes. He threw his arms out as he spoke, his voice barely below a shout. "How can you blame me for Rochefort? The man's mad! No one could have predicted what he would do!"

"So if Rochefort hadn't found out you would not be minding having ruined Lady Marguerite's marriage prospects as well as having put her in mortal danger by making her an asset to conspire against the King?"

Aramis stared at him slack-jawed. 

"I never— To imply it was my intent to ruin her—" Richelieu could see Aramis was taking deep breaths. "If you weren't who you are— if we— if the queen didn't need you, I'd demand you face me in a duel."

"Which is illegal, as you must well know; on pain of death." 

He watched as Aramis paced in front of him, impotent, dark-faced, and Richelieu sighed.

"No, I doubt you thought of it. I guess you rarely think at all." Once again his thoughts were drawn to that snowy forest, and to that pale woman's face turning even more ashen as she guessed her fate. "I doubt your usual conquests require such consideration."

"How dare you talk to me like this?! You've kept mistresses!" This time Aramis bared his teeth as he replied, but Richelieu stood his ground, and Aramis' ranting spent its force futilely like a wave failing to move a cliff. 

"Marguerite was no one's mistress, or wife, or widow."

The musketeer swallowed. "But what about yours? What superior morality concerning the treatment of young women drove you to show me Adele's tomb? What about her?" 

Richelieu could feel something deep inside him revolt and shudder, but he did not hesitate to reply. "You talk of a mistress to whom I confided in about affairs of state, whom I shared my secrets with, and who in turn shared her bed and her thoughts with a man everyone considered to be my enemy." His face darkened. "Adele knew the rules of the game she played. Unlike you I took care my mistress knew the stakes she was playing for when she became the confidante of the king's First Minister and betrayed him." 

"You're saying she deserved to be _murdered_ , because she made a mistake?" 

"Mistake or intention, she betrayed the trust placed into her. Whether she chatted about my policies to a king's musketeer or the Spanish ambassador doesn’t matter. This was about eliminating a threat." 

"Of course she talked of you! But I never would've—" Richelieu watched as Aramis' cheeks changed colour from an angry tan to a pale green. "There was no harm done!"

"Do you think she would have stopped being so careless once you grew bored of her? Do you honestly believe she never would have talked to a man less noble than yourself? Tell me," Richelieu continued, not in the mood for mercy. "What is usually the fate of traitors?"

"We grant them a trial!" 

"In the world of secrets and spies? With Spain and Austria smelling for blood, waiting for the slightest misstep on our behalf?" Richelieu did not stop the patronising smile that spread across his face. It helped cover up other, uglier feelings. "We only allow traitors a trial when it saves a queen's reputation."

The disgust was spelled plainly on Aramis' features. 

"I'm going to join the queen's escort after all, if you don't mind."

He did not wait for a reply from the cardinal before he started to walk out of the chamber, but Richelieu was not prepared to let him leave yet. 

"Do you know why I allowed you to see her tomb?" 

Aramis half turned his head.

"So you would remember her." Richelieu encompassed the entire room in his gesture. "So that this exact situation could have been avoided."

Aramis started walking again.

"But maybe that's your game," He could not be sure whether the musketeer even heard this last sentence as he walked away. "You court the unattainable so you won't ever feel obliged to bind yourself and live with the consequences."


	12. You Will Go Hungry, part II

When the queen arrived she was accompanied by the three musketeers, Richelieu's two captains and a group of Red Guards, and, despite the hour and her destination being the king's private chambers, one of her ladies. Richelieu recognised the lady as Madame Bonacieux, who quickly excused herself to join Marguerite watching over the Dauphin. 

The queen herself put on a stoic mien when she entered the antechamber. Nothing about her expression or her gestures betrayed how she felt about the king's condition, and all she said was: "Is Rochefort—?"

"Secured." Richelieu answered. "He's alive and will be able to answer for his crimes."

The queen nodded, her face remained grave, and turned towards her escort.

"I will speak to the king alone."

The musketeers and guards retreated, positioning themselves around the chamber, while Aramis went ahead announcing the queen's arrival to Doctor Lemay, before holding the door open for his queen. Once it had closed behind her the musketeer pointedly ignored the cardinal who in the meantime had requisitioned a low sideboard and covered it with the papers he had brought from the Palais Cardinal. He longed to be in his office, but he did not want to leave the vicinity of the Royal Chambers before Louis was confirmed to be well and resting.

With the signed orders of the King Richelieu could have Rochefort safely transferred to a nice, cosy cell in the Bastille. But even though he guessed that Villefort and his Red Guards had more than earned to be trusted with the task after their display in the antechamber earlier, Richelieu remained a suspicious bastard by nature. He'd rather have Cahusac escort the Comte to his new, temporary abode, or – Lord have mercy! – even the musketeers, just in case Rochefort had even a single friend left in the Red Guard – or another victim of blackmail. After all the trouble they had gone through Richelieu would not risk the man who had done so much harm to his king and to his lover slipping through his fingers. But the musketeers were busy, of course, and he already had a different task in mind for Cahusac, which meant Rochefort had to wait. 

While the Queen was with her husband Richelieu ordered one of the Red Guards who had arrived with them from the chateau to return there and fetch his secretaries. In the meantime Cahusac was to organise a gathering of those of his higher staffers who had remained in Paris at his old office in the palace. 

Once the orders were issued he returned to study his papers. D'Artagnan and Porthos took some interest in his work, but he shooed them away, telling them to help their brothers make the arrests, and rolled up a few of the documents just to be safe. 

The only people close by he would ever discuss any of these papers with were the king and queen, and maybe Lady Marguerite once the time came to make the preparations for Rochefort's trial. 

Hunching over his makeshift desk he felt his shoulders ache with the weight of the day. But there was to be no rest for him yet. They could not wait for Charpentier and Le Masle or anyone else to arrive, as there was no possible way they could be in Paris before the late afternoon, but that didn't change the fact they had a lot to do before the city woke up. He prayed that in the meantime a musketeer would show up to bring him some good news right as the queen re-emerged from the dark bedchamber.

"His Majesty is resting now," she said and Richelieu noticed that her face had lost the stony expression. She still looked calm and regal, but in a soft, contented way. 

Richelieu rose to meet her.

"If it would please Your Majesty, I've called for a council discussing Rochefort and our continued actions against Monsieur's allies."

The queen frowned.

"Please allow me to see my son first. Just for a few moments."

Richelieu stepped aside, almost embarrassed at not having considered how concerned she must be for her child after their separation. _A few moments wouldn't hurt_ , he told himself, and once the queen had left he ordered Cahusac and the Red Guards to escort him to his – formerly Rochefort's – office. He suppressed an immediate urge to redecorate.

Once arrived, Richelieu decided that it was best that the queen would be joining them belatedly as some of his people took time to take in that his return was anything other than a cruel prank. Somehow he had hoped the people he had worked with every day for years would have more faith in him. But at least their reluctance convinced him that the majority of the royal court would consider his faked death deliciously dramatic. The courtiers might even hate him less for a while because of it – or at least by those courtiers his scheming had not sent to the Bastille.

He spent hours in this small office, eventually being joined by Marguerite and the queen in order to attempt building their case against Rochefort. Richelieu still considered having Charpentier fake a couple of documents once he arrived to make Rochefort's connection to the Spanish spymaster more evident, but those would be taken to Louis alone and maybe the council later, not to a court of law, and as such their creation was not as pressing. 

As the meeting went on Richelieu wondered how smoothly things were going in Blois. He should possibly consider sending a troop of Red Guards as reinforcements once it was light. 

"What will this mean," the queen asked eventually. "If we execute Rochefort as a Spanish spy, what message are we sending to my brother?" 

The cardinal caught himself exhaling slowly as the Queen of France studied his face carefully.

"War. Most likely." He cast a quick look into the flame of the candle that flickered innocently before him. Spain and France had been dancing around declaring war on each other for years, preferring to support a proxy war in the east – in the Netherlands, in the German states – wherever there was a spark they fanned it into a fire. 

In the meantime they raised armies and forged alliances in preparation to one day turn this cold war into a hot one. Yet each refused to be seen as the one who forced the other into open warfare by the rest of Europe. As irony would have it, with Rochefort's mission Spain had given their French enemy just the excuse they had needed to justify this war to their neighbours. 

"For however briefly Rochefort has been First Minister, the fact that a man in his position was paid and planted by Spain to trade secrets is an affront that King Louis can't let stand without appearing weak in the eyes of allies and enemies alike."

"Enemies like Spain." Dark clouds rolled across the queen's face. "It's still had to believe my brother would condone Rochefort's actions."

"If it's any comfort to you, it's not the king who rules Spain, but his favourites and advisors."

"So, it's much as in France."

Richelieu smiled, but not entirely without affection. Poor Anne; bound to weak kings. If only she could bring herself to seduce her husband into action instead of random musketeers.

If there was to be war she would finally have to decide whether she was a daughter of Spain or a queen of France. 

Marguerite was the first of them to retreat and Richelieu sent one of his men to escort her to her quarters and keep guard as she still showed signs of nervousness. The night's excitements and her part in Rochefort's scheme weighed heavy on her, yet Richelieu found little comforting to say apart from reminding her of his earlier promises of absolution. The queen was tired as well. But when she left it was to arrange to have her son moved back to her apartments rather than to go to bed. 

Richelieu himself had to fight drifting off himself more than once. His neck and shoulders ached and he could tell his head was going to forsake him if he tried to analyse any more plans. He recalled he was up since early in the morning and feared he was getting too old for scheming all through the night. 

He knew not how long he had napped, snapping back into consciousness when Villefort informed him that the king was asking for him. The sky seen from the windows he passed on his way to the Royal suite told Richelieu it was a very early, very grey morning. 

It was strange to think that it was over. To think that with the new day opened a new chapter for the French Royal Court, and that Richelieu would be an active part of it instead of remaining an onlooker in hiding. 

It felt unreal. 

Despite his, as Richlieu would not deny, great intellectual capacities he found it hard to process that he was back to stay after he had dreamed of this day, envisioned it, for months. But those are the long term effects of oppressive thinking. Once the veil lifted it left you imagining ever new issues to become anxious about, unable to accept that there might indeed be no other obstacles blocking the way than the ones you made up in your mind. Richelieu longed to shake his whole body like a wet dog to get rid of these obstructive thoughts, but the gesture would have seemed inappropriate for the First Minister of France, especially as he had just arrived at the Royal apartments. 

"Armand, please come in."

When Richelieu entered the king's private chambers Louis greeted him with a smile. The king was still in his night clothes, hidden under a robe, which told Richelieu that he had not yet returned to performing the proper morning rituals. But at least he was sitting up in a high-backed chair instead of wasting away in his bed.

"Are you recovered, Your Majesty?"

"According to Doctor Lemay I am, but I fear a part of me will remain affected by this forever."

Richelieu fought the chill that formed in his guts at hearing these words. The knowledge that the king enjoyed being dramatic did only alleviate his fears a little and he decided to check with the doctor later whether there was some basis to the king's sentiments, or whether it was part of Louis' usual melodramatics.

"Come closer, please," said Louis, and despite his weak voice he smiled. "I had to convince myself I hadn't simply dreamt up your returning. It's why I had you summoned." 

Richelieu approached and took the offered hand to kiss it, but Louis drew him into what was almost a one-armed embrace instead. 

"My dear cardinal."

There were so few people in Paris or even in the entirety of France who showed him as much affection that Richelieu took a moment to gather his senses before extracting himself and bowing his head. 

"I assure you I'm as real as anything is in Your Majesty's kingdom."

Louis smiled at him again, but then faltered, briefly looking away. "It all seems like a bad dream, but yes, it is real, isn't it?" He exhaled deeply "Are you sure Rochefort's the one behind the poisoning?"

"Absolutely. We have witnesses, including your son's governess, Lady Marguerite."

Louis sighed again, looking desperately unhappy. 

"When will the trial against him begin?"

"It will take a few more days to bring the case against him in order, but I will take it upon myself to appoint the judges as soon as possible, if you wish."

With a desolate cast to his brow Louis nodded. He'd always taken the fall of his favourites hard, and this time he had to cope with a betrayal on an extremely personal level. 

"Please leave me for a while," he said without looking up and Richelieu began to withdraw with another bow. "And please find Treville for me, I need to see him. I've done him an injury."

 _You've no idea how much,_ Richelieu thought, but only said "Sire" and left. 

But as he stepped back into the antechamber that had been witness to such game-changing events the night before he could not help but wonder: where _was_ Treville?

Hadn't Richelieu made it clear – in other words – that he wanted him to witness his triumph? Treville had been told he was free to follow the cardinal to the palace once he'd passed on his orders to the musketeers, and now Richelieu needed those musketeers to transfer Rochefort to the Bastille. Yet, Treville had not shown himself nor had Richelieu heard any word from the garrison. The fact that he had been too busy fretting about the king's health and dealing with his own tasks to be expected to look after the musketeers did not calm the queasy feeling that was rapidly settling in his stomach. 

Immediately he went in search of Cahusac, and once he found him noticed that he was riled up enough for shouting. "I want a man sent to the musketeers' garrison now!" He ran a hand across his brow in embarrassment and took a deep breath before he continued. There was no sense in allowing panic to take hold. If anything had gone disastrously wrong with the arrests he would have heard of it by now. Not eve Cahusac would let him sleep through such a crisis. 

"I need to know what's going on there." 

"That might not be necessary." Cahusac's calm suspiciously reminded Richelieu of the mask he tried to wear over his own anxiety. 

"I was just told Athos and his inevitable friends have arrived at the palace and demand to speak with you."

"Demand?"

The news did little to help Richelieu's feeling of uneasiness, but the cardinal just managed not to hasten unduly as he returned to his small office in the palace to grant an audience to the four musketeers. He found them waiting for him when he arrived. 

"What do you want?" he snapped as he walked over to the desk that had still been Rochefort's a mere couple of hours ago. If he were here Treville would without a doubt scold him for his continued churlishness towards the musketeers who had helped him a great deal – but then Treville's absence was the reason for his churlishness, so it had to be excused. Once safely behind the wooden furniture he found four grave faces confronting him. The return of the uneasy feeling deep in his intestines made him grab the desk in support. 

Soon Athos' noble, reserved voice filled the room. "It's quite simple. We want answers." 

Richelieu could feel his eyebrows creep up to his hairline.

"We've arrested a couple dozen noblemen, some quite high-ranking, and turned them over to the governor of the Bastille, with no instruction as to what to do afterwards. But more importantly, we want you to tell us what happened to our captain."

While Athos spoke the other three leisurely placed a hand near their pistols as if for emphasis, but it hardly registered in Richelieu's mind over his inner cries of "what in heaven's name are you talking about?"

He must have spoken out loud for d'Artagnan answered him:

"It's easy." The musketeer hit the desktop with his gloved fist. "You tell us now what game this is and why someone kidnapped our captain."

Richelieu felt himself floating as if gravity had stopped. He sat down. "Kidnapped?" No, he could not have heard that right. "Treville's been kidnapped?"

"You swear this isn't part of your scheme?"

"No!"

This time Richelieu did not react at all when d'Artagnan leant in close since the news had numbed his entire body. 

When he failed to give the expected response d'Artagnan retreated, throwing up his hands, but still Richelieu could not stop running the sentence through his mind: "Treville has been kidnapped?" 

It was not possible. Treville was at the garrison overseeing the arrests. Treville was safe. Only he somehow wasn't, because Richelieu couldn't imagine the musketeers lying about this.

"Where were you when this happened?" He had to shout to stop his throat from closing up. "And to think you're supposed to be the king's guards!"

D'Artagnan turned back to him with eyes flashing until Porthos stepped in to hold him back.

"We were where you wanted us to be! With the queen!"

"Two musketeers died." Athos appeared much calmer than his young friend, but with the Comte de la Fère this didn't mean much. From what Richelieu knew of the man – mostly thanks to Milady – Athos didn't burn with rage, he simmered. "So did two of your Red Guards."

"And Treville?"

"We found no other bodies."

_Lord, have mercy!_

Richelieu hid his eyes with one hand. 

_They'd been so close to winning this game._

"The civilians we interviewed said the captain was taken away in a coach, alive."

Richelieu looked up, his heart pounding against his ribs. 

"What civilians?"

"Those woken by the fight. They took it for a botched arrest."

D'Artagnan grunted in assent. "They were actually complaining about the noise."

"But Rochefort can hardly have authorised an arrest while he's locked up," Aramis added, "unless someone let him."

"This didn't happen at the garrison?"

"No. It happened when Treville was on his way to the Palais Cardinal."

Richelieu swallowed.

"What was he doing there?"

The musketeers exchanged a look between them.

"You don't know?"

"No. I told him I wanted him at the garrison. You heard it! You were there!"

"The two of you hardly ever tell us the whole story."

Richelieu bit his lip to stop himself from growling in frustration. "Just tell me what you know."

Once again it was Athos who took pity on him. 

"Treville didn't say what exactly he was looking for at the Palais Cardinal. He left around dawn and told me to find Milady who was to meet him there. I couldn't find her and when I returned to the garrison I was met by alarmed civilians concerned about the dead bodies in their street." 

"We'd just returned from the palace," Porthos added with a dark look. "They showed us the bodies."

"And these civilians saw what happened?"

"It was still dark, but they made out the uniforms of the Red Guard and they remembered a man being addressed as the Vicomte de Fauchet."

Richelieu swallowed against a suddenly parched throat. 

_Fauchet._

He had allowed that man to continue to walk free. 

"Did these civilians know where Fauchet took Treville?"

"No."

 _Keep calm_ , Richelieu told himself. _Listen first, order executions later_.

"You're sure it was him?" 

"Our witnesses said so."

It made sense. Richelieu balled his hands to fists under the desk. Unbidden he was reminded of Rochefort's threats, that he had means to extract a confession from him. 

But surely, if Rochefort was behind it, if this was another trump up his sleeve, the Comte would have tried to threaten him with Treville to avoid being captured instead of throwing himself at a guard's sword?

No, if this had happened at dawn, Treville would have still been free when they took Rochefort prisoner.

Richelieu took a deep breath. Something didn't add up. 

"You said Treville wanted to meet with Milady?"

"Yes."

Milady. _Milady._

 _What had Treville been thinking?_

Richelieu felt the way that if Milady never showed her face anywhere near Treville again it would still be too soon. Through practiced effort he forced his hands to still and his voice to remain firm. This was no time for panic. Too much depended on him, no matter how he longed to scream.

"And you went to find her for him?"

"Yes," Athos repeated. "I'd done so before, but she was to be found at none of the usual places."

"You trust her?"

"You don't?" To tell by their expressions the musketeers believed someone was playing a cruel joke on them. "She was your spy."

"Exactly. She _was_."

"The captain seemed to trust her," Porthos cut in. "That's good enough for me."

The musketeers appeared to have little trouble accepting her as an ally in an emergency, but the idea did not make Richelieu's queasiness go away. 

"Yesterday Milady told me Fauchet was working for Rochefort."

Richelieu sighed. He felt like he neither possessed the energy nor the time to tell them the full story, but he had made the same connection already. 

"Then it's lucky the Comte is still with us here at the palace," he said, exuding a coolness he did not feel. . 

As Richelieu led the way out of his office to the chamber in which Rochefort was kept under guard he considered the trip both too long and too short. The anxiety that had eaten its way into his heart demanded he run, but at the same time he knew that if Rochefort truly sought to blackmail him there was little he could offer the Comte that he'd accept, no matter how much time he spent on thinking of something. 

There was no possible way he could release Rochefort. There was as little chance that the man's life could be spared. Even if there was Richelieu doubted Rochefort would enjoy the prospect of spending the rest of his life in a French prison any more than he had enjoyed his stay in a Spanish one. As for the deal Vargas had offered the spy in order to turn him, there had been a reason Richelieu had gotten rid of him in the first place. Rochefort was beyond any spymaster's control and there was no way Richelieu would allow him to become his spy again. None. 

Or was there?

After all had he not felt about Milady in a similar fashion for a time? But still he had paid her a sinful amount of money because she had known how to play her cards. The truth of the matter was that the other reason that kept Richelieu from running was that he was afraid of what he might offer once he arrived - in exchange for Treville's life.

But even as he fought to retain the steel in his spine the musketeers did not leave him to contemplate in silence.

"Are you not going to explain anything? Two musketeers are dead, as are your men, and the captain is missing!"

Richelieu had to exert all his self-control not to lash out. He certainly did not need to be reminded. But as soon as d'Artagnan let up, Aramis stepped in.

"What has this Vicomte got to do with Rochefort? How did he come to command a troop of Red Guards to abduct our captain of all people?"

Richelieu threw his head back in frustration, but continued moving. It appeared the musketeers were intent on not letting him think.

"Fauchet was my agent," he said eventually, realising they would only continue wasting his energy. "He was to keep an eye on Rochefort during the time I was forced out of Paris by the conspiracy against me. But it turned out Rochefort possessed material – possibly supplied by the royal Spanish spymaster – that implicated members of Fauchet's family in a case of high treason which Rochefort used to blackmail Fauchet into taking his orders."

"But you found out about this?"

"I knew someone was obstructing the flow of information reaching me from Paris, but we didn't figure out their identity until recently."

"You knew!"

D'Artagnan grabbed him again just when Richelieu realised they had almost reached their destination. 

"And you just left him to his business?"

"I—" He shoved d'Artagnan's arm away. Regret got them nowhere – but unlike the musketeer's hand, he couldn't shake it off. "We had bigger problems to content with than Fauchet! Such as restoring the queen's good name in the king's eyes."

The musketeers looked anything but satisfied with his answer, but the Red Guards waiting for them just around the corner discouraged them from continuing their fight.

Six soldiers stood guard in front of the chamber in which the Comte had been locked up and two more guards were posted inside. They let the cardinal and his unusual escort pass without comment. 

There was nothing much in the way of furniture in the room and therefore nothing much Rochefort could use as a weapon. If he truly tried for it he could probably dismantle the heavy sideboard or the chaise longue he had to make do with instead of a bed, but not in time before the guards in the room were able stop him. 

It was this chaise longue that Rochefort was lounging on when Richelieu and the musketeers entered, and he looked unconcerned. To say the relaxed look of him fed Richelieu's anxiety would be an understatement. During his career the cardinal had encountered many condemned men, but Rochefort did not have the air of someone sentenced to die. Many of these people had been calm, often finding comfort in prayer, but not to the point of nonchalance. 

Despite the bored expression the Comte did not look as if he had slept much – or maybe it was the reddened skin spreading around his eye-patch that made him appear so sickly pale. 

"Cardinal." His voice sounded as deceptively pleasant as Richelieu remembered it from when they had both been at Court. This was the man who had usurped what Richelieu had spent decades building. This was the man who had moved into his office and stolen his post. This was the man who had murdered the king's councillors, poisoned the king and attacked the queen. This was the man who had deposed Treville, humiliated him, attempted to run him out of his home, and caused him to be shot and almost killed. This was the man who might now command over Richelieu's soul if he what the cardinal feared was true. 

Yet he acted as petty and cruel as small minds would. 

"And yet more musketeers?" Rochefort's gaze caressed the weapons they carried a little too obviously and the soldiers took care to position themselves just out of arm's reach. Immediately the Comte raised his eyes to their faces as if he hadn't noticed, his gaze eventually settling on Aramis. "And the proud father amongst them!" he spat. So quickly did his calm façade crack. "I am so looking forward to have your corpse dragged through the streets where your whore can watch!"

Only Porthos' strong grip on his friend prevented their interview from being cut short in that moment. 

Ignoring Aramis glaring daggers at him Rochefort turned his attention to Richelieu:

"I hadn't expected you to escort me to the Bastille yourself. Or has the king demanded my release and you've come to take my place?"

"The king will enjoy seeing you torn to pieces as much as I." Richelieu watched as Rochefort narrowed his eyes to a glower. "No, I'm here to ask you a few questions."

He turned towards the soldiers. "Leave us."

The two Red guards started moving but stopped when the musketeers stayed rooted to the spot.

"Not going to happen." D'Artagnan crossed his arms in front of him, somehow managing to lean on air as he signalled he was not prepared to move an inch. 

"He's right," Porthos mirrored him "This concerns us as well."

"Besides," Aramis added, "he might attack you if we leave you alone."

"It looks like your nannies don't trust you with me alone." Rochefort grinned

Richelieu did not deign to reply. "Leave." He did not take his eyes off Rochefort even while he addressed the musketeers. "What you will hear will only hurt your fragile ideas of how kingdoms have been run since their inception;" and, if he was unlucky, also any notions they might have about what their captain got up to in his spare time. 

He shook off these thoughts, reminding himself that the musketeers – and these four in particular – loved their captain. If they learned anything now that disturbed them enough to betray that secret, it would likely take them a while to decide to take action; meaning Richelieu could always get rid of them later, now that he held that power once more. The only difficulty would lie in explaining to Treville what had happened to his favourite musketeers. The same musketeers, who, after all that had happened to Treville, and after all that had happened between them, still wouldn't refer to him as anything other than their captain. 

Richelieu took a deep breath. Perhaps it was time cardinal and musketeers took a chance on each other. 

Daring to tear his eyes away from the villain before him he looked straight at Aramis.

"You know what the price is for these kinds of secrets."

But Aramis met his gaze squarely. "Ask your questions."

Richelieu gave up and merely repeated his request to leave to the present Red Guards while the musketeers remained. The four of them had received ample warning. Whatever followed would be on their heads and Richelieu did not want to find out what would happen if he asked the Red Guards to remove the musketeers by force. 

What he wanted was to find Treville. 

When he turned back to Rochefort, their prisoner scoffed.

"Am I to accept an interrogator who can't even keep his guard dogs on a leash?"

Richelieu heard one musketeer growl and shuffle, but he cut them off with a waving of his hand. But despite the cool gesture he could not keep the emotions entirely out of his voice:

"You have one chance to save yourself from all the tortures the lowly human mind can invent." He paused; struggling for what he hoped was a calmer, cooler tone of voice. "Tell me what you did with Treville."

Rochefort's face went blank, the cocky expression washed away clean.

"What would I want with Treville?"

Richelieu felt his own jaw go slack. Blatant denial he had not expected. There should have been a smirk at least, or teasing. Instead, Rochefort appeared genuinely taken by surprise.

"You ordered his kidnapping! Don't deny it!" The musketeers found their voice before Richelieu did. 

This now, made Rochefort grin. 

"You musketeers are really bad at looking after him. Did he get shot again?"

His grin failed when Porthos lifted him straight out of the chaise-longue by his collar and into the air.

"Don't play with us! We know this Fauchet is your man."

"Porthos!"

Aramis jumped to his friend's side and just in time grabbed the hand that had reached to snatch the parrying dagger from Porthos' belt.

With a grunt Rochefort was dropped back onto solid ground. He reached for his throat, gasping until a punch by Aramis sent him toppling to the floor.

"I'd prefer if he was in a condition to talk, gentlemen," Richelieu reminded them, his heart pounding. Somehow he managed to refrain from checking on his own concealed weapon.

"Fauchet was seen in the company of Red Guards when Captain Treville was taken. Do you really expect us to believe you knew nothing of this?"

Even though it was Athos who addressed him Rochefort, wiping bloody spittle from the corner of his mouth as he sat up, turned to face Richelieu – and his wheezing turned into a laugh. "Fauchet said he needed guards to stop you," he said between breaths. "He didn't use them as I expected."

"Stop the cardinal from doing what?" 

Rochefort faced the musketeers with a snarl that would have rivalled the king's fiercest hunting dog. "From taking back his post! How stupid are you?"

"So you admit you knew I was alive?"

"Yes!" He spat, his face red from wrath. Porthos hovered about him, ready to take hold of him again should he lash out and Rochefort retreated to the chaise longue.

"He told me right before you dared to show yourself." He paused. "This surprises you."

As his smile returned for a moment but this time Richelieu was taken aback at the scorn in it. "I knew Fauchet was a spy as soon as he approached me. I didn't know you were still around to play, so I assumed he was with Gaston, which Fauchet confirmed after I applied a little pressure." 

Richelieu could guess what he meant. He had left the incriminating papers with Charpentier.

"I made him spy for me at court. But he told me only last evening that Milady had revealed to him you'd returned, and that it was you the queen fled to."

The musketeers straightened at his side and Richelieu could feel his heart rate pick up.

"But he knew you were alive all this time, didn't he? He was your agent and you're surprised he didn't betray you sooner." He laughed again. "It seems Fauchet betrayed us both."

Even though he had only just realised the extent of Fauchet's double-game a mischievous glint stole itself into Rochefort's good eye. 

"I made him delay all of his reports of my movements and watched him closely. Gaston has little love for his brother's rule, but he doesn't love seeing Louis' favourites gain power either." 

Richelieu did not know whether it was his obviously festering eye or the despair over his fate and the memories of what had followed his last capture that drove him to such madness, but the cardinal let him ramble on while the musketeers looked on as much confused as disturbed.

"Tell me, did I vex you? Just a little?" 

"No more than any other insect would."

"I did."

Richelieu did not reply. If the only comfort Rochefort retained at the end of his life was the knowledge that he had made the cardinal's life harder, he was welcome to it. 

At the same time it was becoming increasingly clear to Richelieu that Rochefort had no idea where Treville had been taken to or why. His spine tingled as the thought struck him that they were wasting their time here while Fauchet gained an ever greater head-start. 

He was sure now that Treville's disappearance had nothing to do with Rochefort. Fauchet could not be so naïve to assume he could force the release of a high-ranking spy, traitor and regicide through any means, nor was it likely that the man even cared about what happened to the Comte. In fact, Fauchet might have hoped for just this outcome – Richelieu capturing Rochefort. Why else would he have lied to his blackmailer about the cardinal being alive until the last moment? 

Heaven knew what Fauchet's plans were now and what Treville suffered while Richelieu was listening to Rochefort's ranting. The cardinal could hardly look at the man before him without nausea overtaking him.

"Poor Rochefort." Richelieu no longer cared about keeping the bile from his voice. "It is clear by his actions that Fauchet figured out that I'm well aware it was he who betrayed me and is now trying to save his skin." 

Rochefort's expression turned hard as stone. 

"Yes, I do hope you realise Fauchet has left you to die. He warned you in the hope you would delay me long enough for him to further his own goals, with the help of the guard detachment you so foolishly put under his command."

The Comte remained silent. Whether it was a moment of clarity or madness, whether Rochefort truly had realised there was no help coming, his eyes darted back to the soldiers' weapons. But this time he remained sitting where he was, made no move to lunge at Porthos again. He only emitted a slight grunt at the cardinal's words. 

Richelieu turned to the musketeers, a sense of urgency driving him from the chamber. 

"It is obvious the Comte knows nothing of value. It's time to leave."

But even as Richelieu spoke he heard Rochefort laugh again. 

"I'm wondering," he sneered, "if this is about you, why take Treville?" 

Richelieu felt a chill crawl up his spine. Despite his efforts to usher them outside the musketeers froze on the spot. 

"I'll ask the Vicomte myself before I throw him in a cell in with you. Leave," he added in the direction of the musketeers, but the soldiers continued to watch Rochefort in fascinated horror.

"There were rumours back then," Rochefort went on. "Among your spies." The last word was spat out, and as Richelieu turned to face him he felt ice-cold.

"It seems they're still around. I never put much weight in them, but perhaps Fauchet does. At least Vargas was very interested in them when I was with him."

"There! Condemned by his own words! He admits to conspiring with Vargas." Richelieu pointed at Rochefort, absolutely certain that it was terror that inspired his outburst. 

But it worked. Rochefort stared at him in confusion and surprise as great as his own. But more importantly, he shut up. 

"The king will hear of this," said Richelieu more calmly. In one swift, smooth motion he turned on his heels and left, expecting the musketeers to follow suite this time. He was right. No sooner had he stepped into the hall outside that d'Artagnan tugged at his sleeve.

"What did he mean? What rumours?"

Richelieu snatched his arm away and kept on walking, without consciously choosing a direction, back to his office. "If you want to see your captain ever again," the words threatened to choke him even as he forced them out, "stop asking questions and start acting. We need to find Fauchet."

He walked on, but the musketeers soon brought him to a stop again.

"You let this Fauchet walk free, even though you knew he was doing Rochefort's bidding. You better explain what this means, and make it quick. He's already killed two musketeers, and if anything happens to the captain it'll be your fault."

Richelieu whirled around to face them.

"What was he even doing away from the garrison? If your captain wasn't such a stubborn ox none of this would have happened!"

There was barely any pause between his speech and Porthos taking hold of Richelieu's collar.

"Hey!" 

They had walked straight into Cahusac coming the other way and the scene froze at his shout. 

"Remove your hand or I'll shoot it off."

Porthos took his time to release the cardinal and not without a final glower. 

"Just fix this."

Richelieu did not reply as he busied himself with straightening his collar in an attempt to steady his trembling hands. 

Already Cahusac had moved to stand between him and the musketeers. 

"Word arrived from one of our agents," he said, ignoring the other soldiers as if nothing had happened. "It looks like Fauchet is packing." 

"Packing?" While Richelieu had wasted his time listening to Rochefort rant Fauchet was slipping through his fingers – with Treville. 

"Apparently his servants have been busy all evening."

"This happened last night?" he barked at Cahusac, forgetting all about the musketeers surrounding them who listened in. "Why did none of the people watching Fauchet report this earlier?"

"They didn't know you're back in Paris, Your Eminence. They sent word to the chateau instead and it took this long for word to get back."

Richelieu hid his face in his hands and heard Porthos growl.

"This guy is leaving?" It was d'Artagnan who took the word once more. His voice was a hiss. 

Cahusac scowled at the young musketeer. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation in the privacy of your office, Your Eminence."

"Oh, no, no! This concerns all of us. This man has our captain."

For a fraction of a second the Red Guard's eyes widened, then narrowed as if he couldn't comprehend what he had just heard. 

"Fauchet kidnapped Treville."

Cahusac cursed crudely enough to make the musketeers turn their heads. He looked apologetic immediately after as the cardinal usually chided such behaviour in his staff a conversational manner, but at this moment Richelieu did not even have a glance to spare.

Cahusac's stoic mien darkened when he heard of Anjou and Biscarrat's deaths.

Richelieu left it to Athos to recapitulate what had presumably transpired. It gave Richelieu the pause he needed to calm his racing heart, but hearing it again did not become any easier by repetition. It only reminded him how much time had passed since the musketeers had showed up in his office. All the while he was no closer to finding Treville.

"We just returned from a particularly fruitless discussion with Rochefort," he explained when Athos had finished. Each word left a bitter aftertaste as he spoke it. 

"He didn't set the Vicomte up to do this?"

"It's all Fauchet."

"So you have decided."

Richelieu could have strangled Aramis for the interruption, but Cahusac already took the word again, defusing the situation before it could become even more volatile: "I assume this means Fauchet knows you're back? Perhaps we should return to your office, all of us."

The walk back to the office, again, felt much too long. Once they arrived he marched to his desk briskly – the familiar texture of the wood felt steadying under his fingertips – and faced the assembled soldiers with storm clouds on his face.

"Fauchet is packing?" he repeated.

"I'm afraid so. Or rather, he appears to be finished by now." 

"What?" Any possible long reply was cut short by Richelieu's temper.

"Our agents continued to watch Fauchet's apartments. The servants stopped loading during the night and presumably are now waiting – either for Fauchet, for it to be light enough to leave or for their preferred city gates to be opened." 

"Where is Fauchet in all of this?"

"We don't know. In the meantime our agents got to, uh, interview his footman. He told them his master hasn't been home since late last night when he ordered them to practically empty his rooms." 

Richelieu could feel despair settle in his bones. It sounded like Fauchet knew there was no returning from where his actions led him.

"Did this footman tell them where he went?"

It was a tiny hope, but even as tiny as it was it hurt to have it crushed when Cahusac shook his head.

"No, none of his servants know where he is at the moment. But they do know he's planning a long stay outside of the city. Presumably at his family estate and presumably indefinitely by the amount of things he ordered them to pack."

Richelieu tried not let his desolation seep into his answering sigh. The quickest way to do it was to bury it under simmering anger as he paced. Cahusac stepped out of his way.

"That's all well and good," d'Artagnan interjected, squaring his jaw and throwing the cardinal a dark look, "but none of this tells us where the captain is or why he was taken."

It was Cahusac who came up with an answer first: "For now we must assume he's a victim of opportunity. Fauchet knows how much he helped the cardinal during his absence and likely took him because he was in the wrong place at the right time." A look passed between him and Richelieu while he paused. "And you're not entirely correct: Since his servants are still here, chances are Fauchet is still somewhere in the city."

"Good thing Paris such a small city then."

"Thank you, Monsieur d'Artagnan, your sarcasm is of great help."

Athos interrupted them. "Since his servants claim not to know where they're headed, it also means he might return to his home."

"Eventually," Richelieu snapped. "After he's had all the time in the world to do with Treville as he pleases!" If the musketeers decided to wait he would turn the city upside down all by himself if he had to. 

Only when he felt Cahusac's hand at his back did Richelieu notice he was shouting.

The primary victim of his outburst, d'Artagnan, jerked up his head: 

"But you told Rochefort Fauchet abducted the captain as a form of protection. He wouldn't risk hurting him." But even as he spoke the words his voice faltered. The other musketeer's looked no more confident and Richelieu felt sick. If not even Treville's own men retained any hope…

"Abducting a man is one thing," Aramis interjected, sounding nervous even in his bodily calmness. "As is killing guard soldiers in a fight. But murder is another matter entirely. From what we know Fauchet is not a fighter, nor an assassin. Cardinal?"

With sudden force Passerat's death sprang back to the forefront of Richelieu's mind, and the conclusion their investigation had led to: Passerat had been murdered by _someone he knew and trusted_. Someone like the man who had helped build his career as a writer and spy. Someone like Fauchet, who had looked so sickened while discussing his friend's murder.

Richelieu licked his dry lips. "I can't say for certain."

He had to believe it was not simple revenge that drove the Vicomte. He had to believe Fauchet had taken Treville in a mad hope that Richelieu would spare his life in exchange for the captain's freedom. He did not need to imagine what Fauchet might end up doing if he saw no hope of escaping with his life. He did not need to imagine what Fauchet might already have done if he had abducted Treville merely to hurt Richelieu.

He looked away.

"So what now?"

The tabletop felt suddenly clammy under his palms and Richelieu remained silent. 

"We can't wait around for Fauchet to dictate his terms only when it pleases him to," Cahusac said and the musketeers agreed.

"We search the city. Someone will have seen them."

"The regiment certainly has practice in apprehending noblemen by now," d'Artagnan added. "But the point still stands: It's a huge city! Where do we start?"

Cahusac cleared his throat: "Does he possess other property in the city? Does his family? Even stables or a coach house? Does he have a favourite mistress or a favourite salon he visits? Start there."

A look of respectful understanding passed between the soldiers before the musketeers addressed the cardinal: "We've finished our task. Every musketeer still on duty is free to help."

"As are the Red Guards." Cahusac bowed. "Villefort and I will go to the Palais Cardinal immediately and turn them to the search as well." His expression hardened for just a moment. "It's high time I returned to the garrison took command again." 

"And they'll follow you, despite Rochefort?"

"Yes." Cahusac managed to reply without losing his cool mean before addressing the cardinal.

"When we encounter Fauchet the Red Guards with him will join us immediately."

It took someone like Richelieu to recognise how deeply the musketeers' question bothered him, but of course the captain had not mentioned taking Villefort with him without good reason. He was proud of his regiment, but he was not naïve, and the tale of his adventurous return was arguably a wild one. 

"What?" Cahusac added upon being confronted by the sceptical looks of the four musketeers.

"They killed the two men you sent with Treville."

"I wasn't there. I don't know what happened well enough to judge," Cahusac said wearing a stone grey expression. "It was dark; Biscarrat and Anjou were out of uniform and had been away from Paris for months. But Fauchet's guards will recognise their brethren from the palace, and they'll recognise Villefort and me."

He touched Richelieu's arm to draw the attention of the cardinal who had taken care to react as little as possible while listening. 

"Just say the word," Cahusac said, while the musketeers passed a silent vote between them. 

"We'll go looking for Treville regardless of what you decide. But it would be helpful to coordinate our search with your men."

Richelieu looked at them. Long moments passed until Cahusac's eyes flickered with concern.

"Do as you see fit."

None of the soldiers jumped when he finally spoke, but they all took a breath in relief. 

"But I'm coming with you, Captain." The fire in Richelieu's eyes dared Cahusac to protest. "I raised this regiment. There'll be no doubts for any of them who they're answering to."

Cahusac's eyebrows twitched in surprise for only a moment before he said "of course." 

To the musketeers the captain added: "You can accompany us to the Palais Cardinal and we'll draw up our plan of actions as soon as I have my Red Guards back."

Athos shook his head. "While you take command of the Red Guards we will return to the garrison and rally the rest of our regiment. We'll join you afterwards. In the meantime we should send someone to question every guard at every gate. If Fauchet's still in the city he won't be able to leave without us knowing."

Richelieu watched the soldiers agree and tried for a lively tone of voice when he threw them out. "If you would excuse me for a moment."

The musketeers looked at him warily for just a split-second but they obeyed. None of them could even guess what he was feeling.

All this talk and yet all they were going to do was wait. Wait for the musketeers and the Red Guard to agree on a plan of action. Wait for the guards at the city gates to report back. Wait for Fauchet to make a mistake. 

Richelieu felt the urge to sink into his chair. 

There had to be something he could do that didn't require him wait and hope to shut down his active imagination. 

Such as taking care of the issues he had actually returned to Paris for, perhaps? But the thought of distracting himself with squabbling noblemen who would never grasp the magnitude of what he had done in order to pull off his disappearing act made him grown in mental pain.

So much of his career had been a waiting game – a lesson in both humility and patience, but this was Treville who was in danger. _Because of him._

Richelieu longed for a moment of solitude just to be able to think again – he had not had a minute to himself until now, he reflected – but even while the musketeers filed out Cahusac stuck around, hovering by the door.

"Are you alright, Your Eminence?"

Richelieu jumped out from behind his desk.

"No! I'm not!" He should have known Cahusac would not leave him alone by the concerned mien he had worn almost all morning. Now the man stood rooted in the office, closing the door behind the musketeers instead of doing anything of actual use. 

"Why couldn't he have stayed put?" Richelieu said. "The musketeers did as they were told, we have Rochefort locked up and all of this could have been resolved. But he had to go and rush to the Palais Cardinal for some unfathomable reason so Fauchet could intercept him!"

"He was trying to help us. He was making himself useful. It's what he does."

Richelieu found himself scoffing. _As if his foolishness had helped anyone._ But immediately he felt guilty. He should have removed Fauchet from the playing field as soon as his double-game had been revealed. If only he had not decided upon leaving him alone in order not to spook a man to whom Fauchet had yet to betray his survival at the time. 

_If only_ was the most useless phrase ever invented.

Now Treville was paying for his mistake. 

"Fauchet is reasonable man—"

"Does kidnapping Treville seem reasonable to you?" Richelieu snapped. 

The captain looked at him from where he stood with his hands folded, anguish written large on his face.

"Fauchet didn't take him in order to kill him." 

"No. He took him so I'd leave him in peace. So he could disappear." _And for the meantime there were things besides killing._

"We'll find him before he does."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because he can't leave if we close the gates, and because the musketeers will leave no stone unturned until Treville is returned to them."

Richelieu sat down. "If they don't, Fauchet's going to kill him because of me."

This was exactly why he had initially kept Treville in the dark about his disappearance: to keep his enemies from targeting Treville. But he had been weak and chosen his peace of mind over Treville safety and now there was hell to pay. The captain had done nothing to invoke Fauchet's ire apart from being associated with the cardinal. 

"He only just recovered from being shot!" Richelieu rested his face in one hand.

Cahusac walked up next to him, leaning against the heavy desk. "You can continue to doubt if that's what you want to do, but in that case Villefort and I are going to the palais without you."

"No!" Richelieu raised his head feeling like his veins were on fire. He jumped out of his seat. "I won't sit here and do nothing!"

"If all you do is brood—"

"No! If you wish to insult me, you've managed." He would not be defeated by the mere thought of what could happen. Come what may, he still had a kingdom to run. A kingdom that he had fought tooth and nail to uphold and to return to. 

But it was so tempting to sink into depression as into a pillow. 

"I'm the first minister of France." Was he to start regretting it, now that he had clawed his way back to the top? "My personal feelings have always taken a backseat to my duty, and I presume they will continue to do so."

Cahusac studied the texture of the wood that composed the desktop for a moment before taking a deep breath. 

"I realise this is a terrible time to tell you this, but that is exactly what is expected of you. Word of your return and of the arrests is spreading fast. You need to start giving audiences sooner rather than later. Today. And you need to be seen at Court with the king, for – pardon my words – for which he needs to leave his bedchamber." He bit his lip again. "We'll find Treville for you, but you can't spend your time running around Paris all day."

Richelieu could feel his teeth grind against each other.

"I'm coming with you to the Palais Cardinal."

"I didn't say you weren't." Cahusac spoke as if the words left his mouth only reluctantly. "But you need to return to the palace quite possibly before there's any news, and you need to be able to function."

Richelieu snorted.

"When have I done anything but?"

He could hear Cahusac exhale another breath full of concern, but the captain merely nodded at the cardinal's dejection. 

"I'll have a coach prepared." He paused a final time before leaving. "I'm sorry."

Richelieu could do nothing except nod, as he could feel his throat prickle with the return of nausea and he cursed himself for it. Finally alone Richelieu gave into his desire, sinking down into the chair behind his desk. Praying was what he wanted to do, but his thoughts racing in circles wouldn't allow it.

Cahusac was right: The king, the council, Rochefort. There was so much cleaning up he had still to do and it all depended upon what actions he would take at Court before the day was through. 

The problem was that he didn't have time for it. Jean had been kidnapped! How could he decide the future of the country while Jean was in danger because of him? It made him want to scream, it made him want to smash his – or Rochefort's? – furniture. But instead he sat at his desk calmly, and just as calmly he knew he had to make the time. 

Ultimately, he was certain, that all the sweat and blood wrung from him, all the glory, fear and hate that had followed him up until now, were asked of him in God's name. But God was testing him harshly and in the face of despair expected him to remain as firm as Job. 

No matter what was taken from him, he would go on. No matter the state it left him in.

When he had elected this way of life he had never assumed it would be easy. He had never assumed it would be this hard.

What did he cultivate the shadows for if not for people like his niece or Jean or even the king and queen to be able to shine their light without the taint? 

Every day he sacrificed his health and his soul in service of the state; risked his life day by day simply by continuing to work while the assassins lurked. He did not make these sacrificed to see those shadows take over and to be left with nothing. And yet there was never an end to the plots against him. And yet there were no rewards, never a reprieve, and no small slice of bliss for the first servant of France.

If it were up to his darkest desires the state could have Rochefort as its chief minister if he couldn't have Treville back.

Anyone who might have heard him should he have voiced his thoughts out loud was free to consider him cynical, but in truth he was frightened. This was not because he could not imagine a world in which he failed to save Treville, but because he could.

Taking a deep breath he reached for the dagger at his side, hidden within the folds of his robes, which he realised he had not removed since leaving the chateau yesterday. His fingers felt along the curve of its hilt and he exhaled softly. The weapon had been a present from Treville. There was an unspoken agreement between them that all their gifts had to be something practical. It was a sleek, elegant weapon, with a straight steel blade. The hilt was fashioned from ivory and silver-coated steel, but the only ornamentation on it was a cross made up of Bourbon lilies etched into the metal of the blade. It had not been given to him on any special occasion and bore no hidden symbolism referring to its gifter. It was simply a token, of many things. 

Once he had convinced himself that it was still there he found the strength to pray. He folded his hands in front of him, bent down his head, eyes closed, and he prayed for Treville to be safe. 

There would be no more curious mistresses, no more assassinated royals – so long as they were French – no more attempts to replace the musketeers with sane soldiers. 

Just so long as Treville was safe.

It was steps, quick and loud, echoing in the hall before his office that interrupted him. Moments later, leaving him just time enough to sit up and discard the instinct of unsheathing his dagger, a hooded figure flanked by Cahusac and the four musketeers barged in. Richelieu recognised her at once.

Cahusac moved back to the cardinal's side where he could position himself between the cardinal and the newcomer any time, just as Milady dramatically uncovered her head. She met the assembly of soldiers spreading through the room with a raised eyebrow, but Richelieu no longer possessed the self-control her coquetry asked of him. 

"How dare you come here?" 

"Pardon me? Won't you even listen to what I have to say before you yell at me?"

"She says she needs to talk to you, urgently—"

But Richelieu did not hear either of them out: "How did Fauchet come to know I'd returned?" He did not leave Milady time to answer. "Rochefort suggested it was _you_ who warned the Vicomte."

Milady blanched.

"You don't deny it?"

"I had no choice. He would have killed me!" She drew her coat tight about her shoulders, making herself small where she stood. "He threatened to kill me and have the information tortured out of Athos!"

"And now he's going to kill Treville instead!"

Silence followed the cardinal's shout only broken by Cahusac's sharp intake of breath and Athos' whisper of "Anne…"

But she looked straight ahead at the cardinal. "It was never my intention to send Fauchet after Treville."

Richelieu threw up his hands. "I'm sure Treville appreciates your intent wherever he is now," he muttered. For a second Cahusac looked like he was going to reach for him but then he retreated to let the cardinal pace.

"I didn't even tell him when you'd be back." Milady continued to defend herself while her husband and his friends watched on in silence. Whatever she had told them that made them accompany her back here, it had not been this. "I only mentioned that you were ready to return and had taken in the queen after her flight. I had to distract him somehow."

Richelieu looked at her in silence for a long moment.

"I can't believe I let you live."

Trembling for a moment Milady breathed in deeply through her nose before she faced him with a square jaw. "I came here to help you. I may have made a mistake, but if you listen to me you can find a way to end this without anyone having to die."

Richelieu said nothing but looked away scowling. Yet he was able to spot Athos stepping closer to her from the corner of his eye.

"You can't place the blame entirely on her. She stayed to spy for you, even though Fauchet could have uncovered her. Even though you left Fauchet free to support Rochefort against you. Milady came here, to you, on her own, to help you – despite the risk she was placing herself in."

Richelieu could feel his breathing accelerate as he stared down the musketeer.

"It's your captain's life she endangered!"

"I know. But she did so unwittingly; for who would consider something as far-fetched as Fauchet going after the captain to protect himself from you?" A new challenge to answer the question posed to him earlier stood clear in Athos' blue eyes: _Why Treville?_

Richelieu continued to glower.

"I swear I have no hand in this kidnapping. I came to the garrison to talk with Athos about a private matter, when I heard." She grew taller again as she straightened herself. "Just listen. I can help you find him."

Richelieu looked down to study his desk for another moment felt his anger abate. He would not forgive her, but even despite his upturned emotions he could forget, for the moment. For Jean.

"Yes?"

"When Fauchet threatened me he mentioned La Rochelle. He's after the letters Rochefort used to blackmail him and any other documents that might lead anyone to find out what his brother was truly up to at the time."

"How does this help us find him?" d'Artagnan started, but Richelieu bade him to be silent with a wave of his hand.

"And?"

"And I suggested he search the Palais Cardinal. He threatened me with a pistol at the time," she added when Richelieu's glower darkened, "and I needed him to leave so I could get out of the palace!" She sighed. "Don't you understand? Treville was snatched on his way there. If Fauchet's anywhere in Paris he'll be at the Palais Cardinal."

Richelieu took a deep breath to keep himself from swaying. To think they had been about to barge in there…

"You can't be sure."

"Have you a better idea?"

Richelieu had to admit he had not.

"We'll start there." In fact, he had to keep himself from letting a rush of impatience overtake him.

"It looks like we're coming with you to the Palais after all," said Athos with a grim half-smile. 

Richelieu did not object. "Get your horses." 

The musketeers did not have to be asked twice, but Milady hung back. 

"You're still here." And, reluctant to leave her alone with the cardinal, so was Cahusac.

"Just for a moment," she said. "I thought that maybe you had a special task for me? Perhaps a suggestion concerning what to do with Fauchet once we find him?"

She smiled at him carefully, but he didn't believe her. She had made it clear before that she wouldn't seek this kind of work from him anymore. She wanted something else from him, but he was not prepared to give it.

"I'm afraid you've become too expensive," he said, retreating back behind his desk but refusing to sit while was observed. It was bad enough that both Milady and Cahusac presumed to think they could guess what went on in his head, he couldn't give in to his weakness in front of them. Neither of them was able to imagine the effort it took not to shout at this very moment.

"This one I'm offering to you free of extra charges."

"I don't want it," Richelieu snapped, placing his hands onto the desk as she made a face at him. He wanted to be away to the Palais, to Jean, but instead he was being held up by Milady's guilty conscience. "Finding Treville will be quite enough."

"If that's what you want." The small resurge of her natural cockiness ebbed away. 

"Yes, leave."

There was only one question left in her eyes.

"I'm not going to grant you your absolution," he replied. "Perhaps you will find it in action. Go and wait for Fauchet at his apartments in case we don't find him first. Have Fauchet's closest friends watched, go to whatever contacts you have left, go and ask around," he added, stressing _go_ , "and pray."

When it was clear that their conversation was at an end Cahusac started to hover around Milady. She looked up at the soldier while biting her lip, but left without further comment, and Cahusac escorted her out of the office.

Alone, Richelieu felt for the dagger at his side once more before stepping outside to join the captain of his guard.

"I forgot to tell you before, but your coach is prepared and I also told Villefort to keep himself ready." Cahusac said, but then turned to the cardinal with a sceptical mien. "When we find them there, what then?"

"We see what Fauchet wants."

Cahusac licked his lips, preparing to voice an unpleasant thought despite Richelieu's determined expression. "Your Eminence, if Fauchet is armed, you need to let us to handle him."

"As we have sufficiently established by now, Fauchet took Treville because he wants something from me. He'll talk to me." _If Fauchet still had something to bargain with._

_If Treville was still alive._


	13. You Will Go Hungry, part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second to last chapter. I'm almost done torturing the characters.

Unlike the previous evening sneaking into the Palais Cardinal through the backdoor was not an option. They needed to know what awaited them before they hunted down Fauchet, but now that dawn had arrived there would be a lot more Red Guards active around the grounds who could give them away if through nothing more malicious than surprise. 

So instead they arrived through the front gates by coach, accompanied by a quartet of Red Guards, and headed straight to the buildings that housed the guard headquarters. Villefort rode ahead, the only one of them to have his head uncovered, while d'Artagnan and Aramis followed on horseback, their blue musketeer cloaks abandoned. Richelieu, Cahusac, Athos and Porthos sat inside, each chasing his own thoughts, which were not very productive in Richelieu's case. But such was the nature of worry. It had a tendency to clog up your mind and block out everything else. Any thinking of the future, any planning became impossible until the only thought left was the _what if?_. 

Richelieu had made a career of pushing aside private worries, to banish them to the back of his mind. But practice did not negate the constant struggle to keep the what-ifs from resurfacing. 

They had hardly passed through the gates before a red cloaked guard rushed out to hold Villefort's horse for him. Richelieu could not hear what Villefort told the soldier, but through the gap in the drawn curtains Richelieu saw him waving them out of the coach and into the building that housed the captain's office. 

The officer in charge they met in there did not look half as surprised as Richelieu would have preferred when the cardinal shed his cloak and the broad brimmed hat in front of him. 

"You already know?" He felt his blood turn cold.

"Word of your return passed back from the palace just before you arrived, Your Eminence," the officer explained, looking no little apprehensive about having apparently committed a terrible faux-pas. "The Captain set up the guard to change at dawn every day." He might have tried for a disarming smile, but the smile did not win the fight against an expression of sheer anxiety.

At the edge of his field of vision Richelieu saw Cahusac scowl at Villefort, who had the good grace to look apologetic.

"You never said they weren't supposed to leave the palace, Captain. On the contrary, once the cardinal had spoken to the king you needed the Court to learn about his return."

It was true. Villefort was not to blame. Richelieu simply had forgotten about Fauchet when he had given his orders. 

"It doesn't matter," offered d'Artagnan. "Does it? Fauchet could have learned you were already in Paris from a dozen sources by now."

"Never mind," the cardinal snapped, before concentrating on the officer in front of him. "Is the Vicomte de Fauchet here?"

"Yes, I believe he headed to the archives."

"And you just let him?" 

The officer looked like he was about to start sweating. "The Vicomte had a note from the First Minister— from the Comte de Rochefort–"

"But you let him enter with a prisoner?"

Richelieu could tell the moment the guard realised what a mistake he had made from his face. This and the lack of a denial told him Milady had been right. _Treville was here_.

"The note said that we were to render him any assistance –"

"The so-called minister who issued that note is a traitor and at present happens to be a prisoner of the crown."

"We didn't know—"

So had their secretiveness come back to hurt them. Richelieu briefly closed his eyes in the face of failure. 

"Fauchet is Rochefort's accomplice, and Monsieur de Treville is not a prisoner, he's a hostage."

"A hostage?" The officer swallowed. "The men would never—"

"The Red Guards accompanying Fauchet are likely as innocent of the Vicomte's nature as you were."

Sadly, at this moment the Red Guards' innocence was exactly the problem. 

"Are there any guards with him now?" Richelieu asked, banishing the tremor from his voice. The beginnings of a plan formed in his mind. "Could you call some of them out of there to replace them?" Having men in the archives who knew exactly what Fauchet was up to, but whom Fauchet had not reason to distrust would be immensely helpful. "Remind them that it's the end of their watch?" 

The officer's expression turned meek. 

"He has a number of fresh guards with him who rode out to report at the palace shortly before dawn. Change of guard," the officer repeated with a weak, apologetic smile. "He had them assist the— the arrest." It was obvious from the man's body language that he wished to be anywhere but in this office at this moment. "He brought some of them back here with him." 

A frustrated sound escaped Richelieu and he turned his face away sharply. The officer's expression became meek when he saw that nothing of what he said did inspire confidence in the cardinal. 

"I can send in a man to let Fauchet know that we have to revoke his clearance to search the archives until the situation concerning the Comte de Rochefort is cleared up."

"Don't! Under no circumstances must Fauchet know what happened at the palace."

Athos cut in at that moment. "The guards with him don't know yet either, I assume?"

"No. I think not."

Richelieu kept staring at him while his thoughts raced and neither noticing nor caring what an effect this had on the officer.

"We're still going to try. How many guards did Fauchet have with him?"

"Eight when he arrived here. There are five with him now."

The odds could be worse. 

Richelieu picked up his cloak and hat again. 

"We're going to the archives."

* * *

This time when the cardinal strode through the halls of the Palais Cardinal, he did not stop to examine the dusty state of the furniture. He marched on at a brisk pace, hardly aware of his surroundings other than minding where he needed to go, until Cahusac drew his attention. "Your Eminence, you can't just rush in there!" 

"He's right," Athos walked on his other flank. "We don't know what we'll find."

Richelieu suppressed a sigh, but forced himself to keep a more measured place. It wouldn't do for him to give everything away through impatience. He even allowed Villefort to lead the way for safety's sake, which turned out to be a wise decision, as they didn't have to go as far as even the entrance to the vast archives before they ran into Fauchet's Red Guards. 

Villefort bade the cardinal's group to stop with a gesture and with another wave of his hand called three guards to him that had apparently been waiting just around the corner. Just in front of Richelieu's old office. 

They came to a halt close enough for Richelieu to see their faces turn to shock as Villefort explained the situation to them. Their stunned surprised only intensified when Villefort led them the few steps to where the cardinal waited. They bowed before him immediately, but Richelieu was in no mood to appreciate it.

"Fauchet is in your office, Your Eminence," one of the guards, a man named Regnard, explained and Richelieu dared to hope that finally luck was turning in their favour. Three guards outside, two inside; these were better odds than Richelieu had hoped for – and he did not believe in chance. 

One of the guards affirmed that Fauchet was armed which ruled out simply storming the place. But he also confirmed that Treville was in there with him, alive. Richelieu tried not to look as though he already felt ten tons lighter. 

"He suffered no injury during the fight in the streets," the soldier added. "Can't say the same of the Red Guards who were there. He fought like a lion."

If there was a hint of bitterness in the man's voice Richelieu let it pass. Their task now was to replace at least one of the two guards inside with one of their own who would subdue Fauchet for them. And then, hopefully, he would have Treville back. 

"Wouldn't it be much easier," Villefort proposed, "for me to go in there and demand Monsieur de Treville to be handed over and locked up properly? There's no sane reason to take a prisoner in there with him."

Richelieu grimaced. "You think he'd let you?" He'd prefer to go with Villefort's plan if there was any chance at all for it to succeed, but Richelieu doubted it. It was another of those once in a lifetime occurrences on which Treville's musketeers agreed with the cardinal. "Fauchet isn't going to watch his only hostage walk away. He'd smell the trap mmediately."

"Exactly. We stick to the original plan. Monsieur Regnard," he nodded at the guardsman who had volunteered, "will enter with Monsieur Loiseau and inform one of his colleagues that his captain has asked for him." 

Switching out both guards would be too obvious so they had to rely on only one man. Loiseau had been with Richelieu at the chateau and Cahusac held him in high regard. He would then strike at the first opportune moment – preferably when there was no chance of endangering Treville by startling the Vicomte. He was to disarm Fauchet if possible, and, if that proofed impossible, he was free to kill him, with the cardinal's blessing. But if everything worked out fine there would be no blood shed, and once Fauchet no longer posed a threat to his hostage he'd signal for the rest of the soldiers to barge in and capture Fauchet alive. 

Despite the simpleness of their plan, Richelieu gritted his teeth as he watched Regnard and Loiseau approach the office. Regnard even knocked politely while the other two Red Guards took up their posts in front of the door again. Richelieu held his breath when they entered. 

A moment later Regnard emerged along with another guard, who also bowed deeply when he stood before the cardinal. But before the soldier even had time to straighten himself again a sound like a dozen steel doors slamming shut at once echoed through the hall. 

Richelieu's ears were not as finely tuned to the sounds of war as those of the younger soldiers, but even he recognised the gunshot at once. In a flash he was headed for the office door. He was not made for running, but the primal fear that heated his blood for this sprint had no consideration for age or build.

"Your Eminence! Wait!"

He felt himself being grabbed, pulled back and came to a halt with Cahusac's arms slung around him from behind while the musketeers overtook him. A kick from Porthos made the door to fly open, bouncing back against against the musketeers streaming into the office.

This was not right. Loiseau had hardly been in there for a minute. 

Richelieu fought to shake off Cahusac's hands even as he heard Fauchet shout "Stop! Don't move!"

The sound turned his veins to ice, but he had to keep going. He had to _know_. Whatever waited in the next room had made the musketeers come to a standstill, and Richelieu could make out nothing of what was going on in his office from behind them. 

"Drop your weapon, Fauchet," called Athos. "This is senseless, hopeless even. You're outnumbered."

"You drop your weapons!" was the shouted reply. "If you even lift your pistols any higher I'll shoot. The cardinal alone enters. Alone, or Treville's dead."

Richelieu feared he felt his heart stop, and Cahusac finally let him go.

"Please don't do anything rash, Your Eminence. The man's desperate." 

But the cardinal hardly heard him. After a moment of regaining his bearing he headed straight for his office.

"Please," he said tapping a musketeer's broad back, surprised at how level his voice sounded when he felt like ripping the door of its hinges. "If you would step back. It's me he wants to talk to." He raised his voice. "Isn't it, Georges?" 

"You've brought the cardinal!" Fauchet sounded relieved, which the cardinal found even more worrying.

Obediently the musketeers let Richelieu pass.

Fauchet and his hostage were standing outlined near the window at the opposite end of the room. Treville was alive. But even though Richelieu's heart jumped back to life at the sight it was a small relief while he was faced with the sight of Fauchet using him as a shield. Treville was shackled. A thick iron bar connected a set of heavy manacles, and Fauchet was behind him, pressed up close, an arm thrown across the captain's collar, standing literally with his back to the wall. The morning sunlight added a warm tone to the blood stains on Fauchet's doublet, but Richelieu refused to spent any thoughts on them. At their feet lay a spent gun, next to Loiseau's corpse. A second pistol, presumably still loaded, was in Fauchet's right hand. Its muzzle rested against Treville's jaw. 

All language abandoned Richelieu at the sight.

"Armand—"

"Be quiet!"

Richelieu heard Treville exhale sharply as Fauchet tightened his grip and pressed the metal of the pistol's muzzle into his skin hard enough to leave a mark. All the ways in which Richelieu wanted to hurt Fauchet flashed in front of his inner eye. 

"If you kill him, you won't be leaving here for anywhere but the morgue," he said, silently praying that his thoughts would clear. This was no time to be emotional. His eyes kept being drawn back to Treville who stood motionless in Fauchet's mockery of an embrace. "You've only got the one shot."

"True, but it's all I need." Fauchet showed his teeth as he spoke. "Your soldiers will kill me as soon as I shoot, but Treville will be dead and I don't believe you want to write him off as acceptable losses. I'm not going to let you kill me without making you pay for it."

"So how do you propose to solve this impasse?" Richelieu asked, feeling weightless. This was no time for panic, he reminded himself; no matter how loud he screamed in his mind.

Fauchet nodded at the musketeers.

"Tell them to leave."

Porthos grunted in response, but Fauchet did not waver. 

"Tell them to leave," he repeated, and Richelieu helplessly watched Treville wince as Fauchet adjusted his grip on he pistol pressing against his face. "I want them all outside in the courtyard, where I can see them. Then I'm going to talk to you."

Richelieu addressed the musketeers: "Do as he says." 

But the musketeers tarried. "We're not leaving without our captain," Porthos said.

"If you're so afraid of the cardinal," Aramis added in a faux-chirpy voice, "why not take him instead? Let the captain go and we'll leave you free to sort this out with Richelieu yourself."

Richelieu knew he should feel insulted at the suggestion, but caught himself thinking, _yes, why not?_ Fortunately he managed to refrain from voicing such madness out loud. Fauchet was likely to guess his desperation without his help. 

Their Vicomte would have none of it anyway: "Put your guns on the ground," he repeated as if he had not heard a single word that had been said. "Go outside and leave. I'm going to talk to the cardinal. Alone. If you do anything to interfere, anything— Treville's death will be on your heads." He turned his gaze on Richelieu. "Ask him. I make no idle threats."

The cardinal could sense the musketeers' hesitation. The hands on their weapons lowered just an inch, awaiting a decision.

"Just do it," he hissed. "Go!"

The soldiers glowered, but this time they obeyed. One by one they retreated. Their footsteps could be heard dying in the distance until Richelieu was left alone with Fauchet and his hostage.

He wondered if this meant that all of them were leaving. Surely Fauchet could not have seen Cahusac? Surely Cahusac remained in the wings, ready to render whatever aid he could? 

If there was any aid to give. 

Would the musketeers attempt to take a shot at Fauchet from the courtyard if Richelieu's diplomacy came to nothing? The thought was almost enough to make him sweat. The window behind him made Fauchet vulnerable it but protected him at the same time. The glass would have to be broken first before a musket ball would be able to hit him with any accuracy. 

"If you'd come in properly, Your Eminence," the Vicomte interrupted Richelieu's train of thoughts. But at the same time the cardinal thought Fauchet sounded less tense than he had in the presence of the musketeers. This had to be good sign; especially if it meant there was less tension in the finger wrapped around the trigger. 

"But stay near the door, please, and don't close it entirely. I'd like to see what's out there." 

As bidden, Richelieu took another step into the room, almost brushing up against another dead body. From the way Loiseau's body lay cramped at Fauchet's feet in a growing puddle of blood he guessed that Loiseau had been stabbed, while the guard here at the door appeared to have been shot. 

Most likely Fauchet had first killed Loiseau as soon as he had been close enough, shot the other guard before the man had time to realise what was happening, and then grabbed Treville right before the musketeers entered.

He thought the pistol he threatened him with looked like the model issued to the Red Guard.

"Did you think I would fall for your tricks?" 

Fauchet had to have noticed him looking.

Richelieu took a shaky breath before he lifted his gaze back to the figure before him. _This was no time for panic_ , he repeated to himself. Ever since he had stepped into the royal sphere of influence he had faced assassins and managed to escape unscathed. This was no different – except in every one of those other instances the gun had been pointing at him.

"What are you doing, Georges?" There were so many questions he could ask him. Most of them started with "why": Why give in to Rochefort? Why not ask for help? Why Treville? 

But none of these questions really mattered anymore, and besides, Richelieu thought he knew the answers already. So this was the question he settled for instead: _What are you doing?_

"Do you have to ask?"

Richelieu wasn't particularly interested in the answer, but he needed to keep Fauchet talking until a solution miraculously presented itself to him. The tableau before him spoke clearer than any words: A cursory look confirmed the door leading to the archives was ajar, the desk had been emptied and all its compartments opened. But none of that mattered either. Anything that might have been of use to Fauchet had been removed the evening before.

"No. I rather believe I don't."

He knew it would be wise to look Fauchet in the eyes while he addressed him, but it was hard to tear his eyes away from Treville. He looked like he had taken a beating. A large bruise spread over his right cheek in purples and blues. There was a cut on his upper lip, dried blood flecked his chin as well as his moustache and beard, and there were stains of dirt on his clothes and face. 

But underneath the grime and blood and he looked stoic. He looked Richelieu straight in the eyes. 

Richelieu hoped he returned that gaze in a manner inspiring confidence. 

"I can see," he continued with his heart pounding, "that you have manoeuvred yourself into a mess you no longer know how to extract yourself from."

"And you are going to offer an extraction?"

Again Richelieu found it hard to concentrate on Fauchet instead of Treville. The musketeer rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner before squinting at the gun. He was trying to tell him something. If only Richelieu could draw out the conversation long enough until he figured out what that was. 

"I know Rochefort blackmailed you. But instead of coming to me with this information, you decided to play both sides. Did you have so little faith in my ability to oust Rochefort? Or were you planning to support whoever ended up on top? Whatever you thought you were doing, unfortunately you ended up waiting too long. I found out about your treason before you could play your hand."

"I wasn't going to hand over the means to ruin my family from one man to the next! You don't know what is at stake." 

His fears were most likely valid. In case the elder Fauchet's treason ever became public the estates and titles that Fauchet had inherited from his brother would be forfeit to the crown. It was a harsh ruling, because it was meant to be a harsh deterrent: betray us und your heirs will suffer.

"I love my family! Rochefort would have destroyed us if I didn't play along!"

"But you did more than just play along!" Richelieu scoffed, finding his way back into his role, all while Treville attempted to direct his attention towards … _something_. 

"We still could have worked things out between us, even after you withheld information from me that could have saved the lives of your fellow agents. But then you had to bolt and decide taking Treville would help you fix things. Tell me," he lowered his voice. "How is this kidnapping going to protect your family's good name?"

Fauchet's face crumpled. "I know what happens to spies you have no more use for! I won't wait to disappear in a Spanish prison."

"And where do you mean to disappear to in the meantime? Lorraine? Austria? Or perhaps even Spain? Would they welcome you as a reward for your brother's services, do you think?"

"Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I want to leave the court? Do you think I want to tell my family we need to leave our home? Our country? Do you think I want to do that to my wife? To my children?"

 _I don't care about your family_ , Richelieu wanted to shout, but he had to remain calm. 

"You forced me! You force my hand!" When Fauchet finally stopped ranting he was breathing visibly harsher, but even during his raving he had not taken his aim off Treville. 

Telling his heart to calm and his hands to still Richelieu continued. 

"So, what is it you think I can do for you now?" 

"You let me get back to my apartment. You let me leave the city unmolested and return to my family estates."

"And in exchange you let Treville go now?"

A fierce, toothy expression spread over Fauchet's face. Richelieu could not help but think of it as sad. 

The Vicomte shook his head. 

"No. Treville is coming with me. He'll be set free once I'm safely inside my castle walls."

Richelieu felt his insides freeze up. 

This was never going to happen. Fauchet was lying.

Fauchet was not going to take his hostage home to his darling wife and children. He was not going to attempt keeping an old soldier like Treville confined but safe for miles and miles and miles in a coach. No. 

If Richelieu allowed Fauchet to leave with his hostage he would never see Treville again. 

The thought robbed the cardinal of his breath. He couldn't take his eyes of the hated gun and the space where its metal muzzle pressed against Treville's skin and he regretted not having pushed for Fauchet to take him hostage instead. He should have. 

Only when the rising bile threatened to choke him he looked away, sweeping his gaze over the dead guard blocking the door, who, as Richelieu noticed morbidly, holstered an almost identical weapon to the one pointed at Treville. Fauchet must have taken Loiseau's gun after shooting the other guard with his own.

"Don't even think about it." Fauchet appeared to have misinterpreted Richelieu's interest in the pistol. "Don't think I won't do it, if you try anything. I won't give myself up without ensuring you'll regret it for the rest of your cursed life." Pausing, the Vicomte took a moment to calm his breathing. "Take the gun and kick it over to me, carefully." He shut his eyes briefly. "Don't think I'm not prepared to kill for this, I already have!"

Richelieu doubted he meant the slaughtered guards, since in the finer circles of the European courts the life of a guard soldier meant very little.

"You killed Passerat, didn't you?" Somehow he managed to keep the resignation out of his voice while he did as Fauchet bade him. The weapon slid across the floor boards and bumped into Loiseau's corpse. "Your dear, old friend." 

Fauchet's pistol jumped up half an inch as a tremor went through him. 

"I had to! He'd guessed that Rochefort was blackmailing me. He would have told someone sooner or later, thinking he'd be helping me."

Richelieu could hear Fauchet's breathing become ragged again. 

"I intercepted him, claiming I was ready to talk. He took the time to stop for me, even though he was in such a hurry to deliver his report."

"Did you also have to ensure his research never reached us? Causing your king to almost lose his life?"

"I didn't read Passerat's notes! I destroyed them." Actual tears glinted in his eyes, but once again Richelieu had little thought to spare on Fauchet. His eyes returned to focus on Treville, who lifted his hands as if to test the weight of the iron bar.

The Vicomte proved not so distracted that he didn't notice. 

"Don't move!" he snapped. "We don't want my finger to slip, do we?"

Richelieu's gaze was drawn back to the hand holding the pistol. It did indeed look likely that it could slip, involuntarily. The service pistols issued to the Red Guards were heavier than they looked, all metal and wood, and Fauchet was not used to their weight. 

The thought of the Vicomte's hand starting to tremble was scary, but under the circumstances it could also turn out to be helpful instead of fatal. At the angle he held the weapon Fauchet's wrist would begin to tire and hurt soon, if it didn't already, since they had been talking for a good while now. His aim would be true only because the weapon's muzzle pressed right against Treville's jaw.

His heart jumped as Richelieu finally understood what Treville was trying to tell him. He was going to do something stupid - Richelieu could see it in his eyes - unless Richelieu did it first. 

He took a deep breath. 

"Whatever exit strategy you had, it's evaporated. The musketeers will hardly agree to honour any promises I make to you. But I can offer you another way out."

"And what is that?"

"My protection. Let the captain go, turn crown's witness against Rochefort, and your life, your family honour and your estates and titles will be saved."

"And Rochefort?"

"Rochefort is going to spew quite a few lies during his trial. Unbelievable, shocking slander against every witness, even the queen. Slander so outrageous no one could believe it without proof." 

Richelieu felt the rhythm of his heart pick up as he saw Fauchet hesitate and swallow. 

"But there is proof! Rochefort has letters from Vargas, and there are documents about La Rochelle, who place my brother…" His voice faltered. 

"Documents burn. As do letters."

Fauchet's face lightened for a moment which Richelieu took to mean he had made a decision. When behind the Vicomte, outside, the clouds parted briefly before the morning sun its light were rays of hope.

"But you'd still know." 

Richelieu swallowed attempting to dislodge the fear that had settled in his throat. "You'd be helping me frame Rochefort. Why shouldn't I reward you?"

"I've displeased you and betrayed you." The smile returned to Fauchet's face, but it was bitter as poison. "As soon as I've done what you ask you'd be free to blackmail my family in the same way, out of revenge if nothing else. Be honest: you won't reward me with anything other than death or a prison cell."

"If you don't feel safe as long as we are both in France I'll allow you to leave with dignity afterwards." The honey-smooth tone honed by countless arguments won against foreign dignitaries came to Richelieu without much effort. "It'll be a written contract. All you have to do is let Treville go now." 

But he could tell that Fauchet was slipping further away from him as the man's expression became ever more closed-off. 

"Why should I trust you? As soon as I surrender you'll have me killed or imprisoned."

"Do you honestly think you're that important to me? Right now, as long as Rochefort awaits trial I have greater use for you alive than dead. You should use that knowledge." He took a deep breath. As long as it meant Treville was safe he didn't care if Fauchet returned to his family estates to live out the rest of his life in peace with his family. But how to make a frightened, untrusting man believe that? 

"You can trust me, because Treville's life is more important to me than revenge. You knew that when you took him, didn't you?"

Fauchet didn't reply, but another tremor shook his hand. His wrist had to be hurting by now. 

"What you did and didn't do for me does not matter," Richelieu continued. Fauchet didn't matter. "We succeeded despite you."

"I killed people!" Fauchet exhaled noisily, his eyes wide. "There's no overlooking that!"

But there was. There was, as long as the only alternative meant adding Treville to that list of people. But Fauchet couldn't see it. Fauchet had killed his dearest friend for nothing.

"No. No, I'm sorry, Your Eminence, but I prefer my chances with Treville remaining where he is, right by my side. But perhaps you'd like to escort us back to my apartment, to discourage any interference by the musketeers?"

Richelieu swallowed his fear despite his rolling stomach. He had to stop Fauchet from leaving with Treville. He had to come up with a new offer fast, as Fauchet's patience was clearly running out. If only he could spare another moment to rethink. But all he had left was this idea, not even half of a plan. 

Then he noticed Jean trying to catch his attention again. If Richelieu didn't imagine things the musketeer had shifted his stance subtly: pushed his feet wider apart, bent his knees further. He was prepared for something – anything – and Richelieu met his gaze with imploring eyes. _Trust me_ , they said. 

Or so Richelieu hoped. Treville had looked tense throughout the entire conversation with Fauchet, but now he started to look worried. 

Richelieu took a deep breath.

"Shoot me." 

Treville gasped, but he did not attempt to break free. Richelieu prayed this meant Treville understood what he was trying to do.

"Pardon?" Fauchet's looked just as surprised. 

"All proof of your brother's betrayal lies with me. I took Rochefort's letters, and I removed the documentation you were looking for from the archives. No one else would even know where to begin to look." 

He risked a quick glance a Treville again, willing him to be ready. 

"You are right; you can't trust me. As long as I live I'll be able to use what I know against you whenever it suits me."

"Do you have a death wish?" Fauchet hissed his reply, but his brow was crumpled by lines of confusion. "If I kill you I'll be twice as damned as I am now. The Red Guards will never let me leave."

"You'll still have Treville."

"But no loaded pistol."

"No. But Treville is in shackles and I see you still carry your blade. Besides, you could simply pick up the loaded pistol at your feet before any guards arrive." He was starting to regret his proposal as soon as the last words left his mouth, but he was quickly distracted by a deep growl from Treville. It was a blessing that Fauchet could not see his hostage's face, for his expression stated clearly that should Fauchet kill Richelieu, Treville would murder him despite the shackles before the Vicomte would be able to do so much as look at his sword.

Hiding a nervous smile at the thought Richlieu squared his shoulders, looking Fauchet straight in the eyes. He could not allow himself to be distracted by Treville's look of sheer horror. "Kill me and you might just gain the time to save yourself and your family across the borders. If you don't, as soon as you leave the Palais Cardinal I will make sure my soldiers arrive at your family estate before you. Perhaps then we'll see what I can do for revenge."

"Do you want me so much to kill you here and now?" Fauchet hissed. His knuckles stood out white against his skin as he tightened his grip on the pistol. The speech could not have worked better to incite Fauchet's anger. It was as though a fire lit up in his eyes.

"I want you to make the decision that will keep Treville alive." 

"Armand!" Treville growled at him but Fauchet shushed him by grinding the muzzle of the pistol into his jawbone until he gasped in pain. 

Even though Richelieu could feel his own anger catching fresh sparks at the sight he had to keep talking "The Red Guards bear me no great loyalty like the musketeers do Treville. Kill me, keep Treville alive and run fast and you might make it back to your family. It will be the king who decides how and when to persecute you, and in his present state that might take a day or two." Richelieu paused, still ignoring Jean who was glaring daggers at him. "But if you dare to overplay your hand again, if you take Treville out of Paris, the musketeers will follow you to the ends of the Earth. If you kill him they will make your life a living hell no matter what kingdom you choose to hide in." Richelieu met Fauchet's incredulous stare. "It's up to you to decide which future you prefer."

Fauchet did not look like he enjoyed taking a decision at all. Sweat formed on his brow in small drops. Already it was light enough for Richelieu to be able to make them out clearly.

"I thought you were going to offer me a way to keep my reputation intact and stay in France?"

"I did," the cardinal replied, feeling weightless once more. He had played his cards and the game was now out of his hands. "You pointed out correctly all the ways in which I was lying." 

"You're giving me a choice between one hell and another!"

"You made that choice when you chose Rochefort over your duty to me."

The fire flared up again: "I didn't choose Rochefort, I chose my family!"

"You chose nothing but the path of least resistance. You chose the path that you hoped would do the least damage to your career."

"Fine!" Fauchet shouted and Richelieu realised that he had finally done it. Swept up by surprise and triumph he didn't even find the time to be afraid. 

"You want me to shoot you? Perhaps I will!"

Richelieu did not believe in chance, but he believed in fate. He believed that the Lord provided for his servant. And more than that, he believed in Treville.

The moment the pistol pointed away from his jaw to instead turn on Richelieu, held by a tired, trembling hand attached to a tired, trembling wrist, Treville moved. He threw himself back with all his weight, hitting Fauchet's face with the back of his head, making him stumble back against the window sill. He threw up his arms at the same time, catching the hand holding the pistol on the heavy iron bar connecting the manacles around his wrists. 

The pistol fired, but the shot went wild. Richelieu ducked out of reflex rather than any need. 

Fauchet fell back with a surprised yelp that was soon replaced by a grunt of pain as he hit the window frame, making him bite his tongue and spit out blood. The impact made him lose his grip on Treville. 

Treville did not hesitate to throw off the offending arm and kept pressing his attack. He whirled around, swung his shackled arms and hit Fauchet on the jaw with a metal cuff. Fauchet groaned and fell against the near wall. But when Treville came in for a follow-up swing, Fauchet caught the iron bar in his fist with a grunt. 

Treville made his opponent release his grip by forcing him to tumble sideways to avoid a kick to his ribs. 

It must have been the anger, fright and pain that combined to lend Fauchet the strength to jump on his attacker with a roar. For a moment they stayed upright before Treville overbalanced and they both crashed onto the floor. Treville hit the desk with his back on the way down. He crashed to the floor with a grunt as all breath was driven from him, but he did not stay immobile for long. Fauchet did not manage to land more than a single punch before Treville deflect his fists with the shackles, and Fauchet's knuckles came away bloodied, making him hiss in pain. 

The Vicomte had learned how to duel. He had not learned how to fight. 

But even Richelieu could tell that Treville's impaired range of movement combined with the weight of the shackles would leave Fauchet with the advantage. 

The Vicomte was also the younger man, one who hadn't taking a beating earlier this day, and he was also the only one still armed.

There was very little Treville could do to him while he was unable to move his hands independently. He could not stop Fauchet from reaching around to his back, to the belt that held his scabbard and his parrying dagger. 

With a shout stripped of any meaning bar animalistic rage Treville threw up his hips and legs, managing to topple over Fauchet, rolling them both onto their sides. 

Richelieu's first impulse was to go for the pistol he had kicked away earlier. But while the two of them wrestled he was as likely to hit Treville as Fauchet, and so he started for the fighting men uncertain what he planned on doing once he reached them. He was not fast enough to stop Fauchet from bringing down the blade in his hand. Gasping, Treville caught his wrist with one hand to stop the blade. 

But even though Treville's vise-like grip on his wrist made the Vicomte groan, it was easy for him to switch the blade to the other hand. When he raised his dagger for a second time Richelieu was there to catch his hand.

Fauchet shouted in surprise as Richelieu pulled at his fingers, but instead of dropping the weapon he let himself be pulled off Treville. He rose fast, faster then Richelieu expected, grabbed the arm that was grabbing him and used all his weight to push Richelieu away. 

The cardinal sprawled onto the floor, feeling pain shoot up his back, making him gasp. He looked up in time to see Fauchet headed for him, parrying dagger still firmly in hand.

It was not until he saw the sunlight make the blade flash that he remembered his own dagger, the one Treville had gifted him. It cost him precious seconds to locate the weapon and draw it from its sheath. They were seconds that Fauchet put to good use as he leapt down at him.

Richelieu had barely freed his weapon when he felt Fauchet grab his shoulder, drawing his Torso upright to be pieced by his blade. At the same moment the Vicomte was pulled back with a sharp jerk that made him wheeze. Treville had slung the iron bar across his throat and was pulling him against his chest, choking him.

"Not him!" he panted as Fauchet dropped his weapon to claw at the shackles pressing the life from him.

The cardinal did not wait to see whether he would manage to extract himself. With one swift stroke he plunged his dagger into Fauchet's chest. The blade went in up to the hilt, as easy and smooth as cutting a cake, missing all the ribs and bone and cartilage that could have resisted it on its way. 

But Richelieu did not believe in chance.

The weapon slipped out as easily as it went in and Fauchet merely had time left to look in confusion from the cardinal to the bloody dagger in his hands before the light left his eyes. Treville dropped the slackening body to the floor. 

As he stared slack jawed at the man he had just killed Richelieu felt the sudden need to lie down. With a grunt Treville helped him to his feet instead, and Richelieu gratefully pulled him into a tight hug. The feeling of Treville in his arms, of Treville's stubble rubbing against his cheek prompted Richelieu to shut his eyes tight. Gradually, his breathing calmed and his flittering heartbeat slowed.

Were these truly Treville's hands he felt lying against his chest? Was this really Jean's breath brushing his neck? Were they finally done?

As if meaning to answer his unspoken questions Treville angled his head to press his lips to the corner of the cardinal's mouth. In prompt reply Richelieu's eyes fluttered open and he angled his head to meet those seeking lips with his own. They parted willingly to admit Richelieu's tongue, and the cardinal felt Jean sigh into their kiss, returning it eagerly, not minding the cut on his lip or the bruises. He might as well have been coaxing all of Richelieu's anxiety out through his mouth. 

"What in heaven's name did you think you were doing?" he asked as he pulled away much too soon. 

Richelieu thought his lover sounded too airy, too winded, too weak, but despite what the fight had taken out of him this was definitely Treville's most accusatory tone, and Richelieu moved his head back to lie against the side of his face before he answered. "I needed him to point that gun away from you." He rested his head on Treville's shoulder, carefully avoiding the bruised cheek, and breathed in deeply. This was definitely Treville's scent. He was breathing, safe and alive and warm in his arms. Richelieu never wanted to move again. 

"I know! Wasn't there any other way you could think of?"

He felt Treville push at his chest gently to force him to look at him, yet all Richelieu wanted to do was to pull him closer. He doubted he could stay standing on his own. Relief continued to flood threw him from head to toe in waves that made his knees weak, but he relented when he felt the iron bar of the shackles press into his chest. They needed to get rid of those.

"In case you didn't notice, I was a little pressed for time."

Pulling back a little from their embrace was worth it just to see Treville smile. 

A minute ago his would-be killer had knelt over him with a dagger, but now Richelieu breathed calmly again.

"Perhaps I, in turn, should ask you why even came here?" he asked, returning the smile but genuinely curious at the same time. 

Treville shrugged and for a split-second Richelieu thought he saw him wince in pain. He had to be sore from the fight and already Richelieu looked forward to taking off some time to provide Treville with all the care and nursing he needed. 

"Athos and Milady found more of Rochefort's blackmail material." Treville sounded winded. "I thought I'd put my time to better use and see if there was more to be found in the rooms he had been allocated with here at the Palais."

"More blackmail material?" The news should excite him, but that would require him to feel anything else but this relief and worry at the same time. "And it couldn't wait?"

"You left me with nothing much to do except fret while you risked your life. If you'd run into Rochefort—" He stopped himself and blinked, distracted by something. "How did things go at the palace?" 

Richelieu sighed. "Later. It went well, but the details can wait until later." For now his mind was wholly, blissfully occupied by the knowledge that they were both alive. 

Treville must have been feeling the same, for he smiled fondly, despite his exhaustion and discomfort. But the soft expression soon faded from his face when his gaze fell upon the body at their feet, and Richelieu thought he could feel him tremble. 

"He killed two of our men in front of me!"

It was definitely a shiver that Richelieu felt running through Treville's shoulders.

"They were wounded. There was no need for them to die." Treville sounded breathless, strained, if no doubt from sorrow. His eyes gleamed hotly from anger - or pain. "And he had the gall to apologise to me!" 

Richelieu tightened his embrace again, slinging one arm around Treville's waist, but he pulled away when he realised that his hand was wet.

_No!_

"Jean…" He raised his stained hand and sensed another tremor shaking Treville when he saw his own blood.

Treville sucked in a sharp breath. "It can't be worse than a superficial cut." 

Then why did his knees buckle?

It was impossible. It was unfair. 

"Now that you mention it, it does hurt. Ah!"

Treville's fingers dug into the fabric of Richelieu's robes as he sank heavily against him. With his heart in his throat Richelieu helped him to the floor gently, helped him to sit up against the nearest wall, away from the bodies.

"Didn't I tell you to take care?" Richelieu hoped the light tone would stop his voice from breaking. It didn't. 

"You told me not to get shot again. I didn't."

Treville gasped as he leaned back, attempting to cover the gash in his side with his hand. But since the damned iron bar wouldn't let him Richelieu had to do it for him. The cardinal felt the weeping flesh against his fingers and immediately started patting down his robes for a clean silk handkerchief.

"I'm fine!"

Richelieu looked up for only a second as he pressed the folded cloth to Treville's side, just in time to catch him grimacing. Hastily he focused his attention back onto the wound: It was indeed a narrow cut, but it had sliced through the leather and linen of Treville's clothes, and into the flesh beneath. And there was blood. 

"It's nothing." Treville said. "It's not deep, see?"

There was no possible way Treville could know that. 

"I'm fine."

Nauseous, Richelieu shut his eyes and swallowed against his dry throat.

"You're not, shut up," he squeezed the words out, finding it hard to speak. "You're bleeding."

"I'm merely bruised and … tired … I'll get up in a minute. Please … please, calm down."

Richelieu found he was unable to reply. He needed something to tie the cloth in place. Treville's tight doublet helped keep the silk pressed to the wound, but it didn't sit snugly enough to stem the blood flow if Richelieu should have to let go. Sitting back on his haunches he swept his eyes across the room. But there was nothing here. Where was everybody else? Surely they must have heard the shot? Surely they didn't all leave the building?

Treville tugged at his sleeve.

"Armand. Please, don't cry."

Richelieu felt his cheeks. He wasn't crying. He wouldn't. Only he felt very exhausted. It was too much. Why was the world intent on their separation?

It was only when he looked into Treville's earnest, bruised face that he felt the corners of his eyes sting and recognised the nausea and the tightness of his throat for what it was.

Blinking, he stood up. "Cahusac! Captain! Guards!" He had to take action, he had to move, but Jean held him back. 

"I'll get help," he tried to explain, only for Jean to shake his head.

"Calm down," Treville hissed. Softer, he called, "will you come here! They'll be here any moment. I'll be fine." He tugged at Richelieu until he placed his hand back at Treville's side. "If you leave I'm going to punch you."

"Jean." Richelieu remained where he was, kneeling beside him. Feeling tired he put his head on Treville's shoulder, pressed his face into his neck and held on tight. For a moment he just breathed with his eyes claused.

"Forgive me," he said, tightening his grip, keeping pressure on the wound, even as the prickling inside of his throat wouldn't let up. "I should have taken action as soon I knew he was the traitor."

Treville grunted, but even so he rubbed the least bruised side of his face against Richelieu's in comfort. There was not much he could do with his hands still in shackles. "It's not your fault. I was the one who brought the queen to you." He paused to breathe in deeply. "I forced you to come here before you were ready."

"You were right to," Richelieu breathed, thankful that he didn't have to speak any louder with Treville's ear right next to his lips. "I let this game go on for too long." 

Treville's answering sigh contained all the worry, all the sorrow, and all the patience of the left-behind lover.

They both fell silent for a while and Richelieu lost all sense and all care for how long they sat together. It might have been mere minutes since Fauchet died – no more than two or three – it might have been hours. He listened to Treville's breathing instead; steady, deep, still strong. It was the only timekeeper he needed. 

"I love you, Armand."

Richelieu opened his eyes, wondering when he had closed them.

"Then stay," he said. "Stay with me."

"I told you, I'm fine." The words brushed the rim of Richelieu's ear softly, before Treville pressed his lips to the sensitive skin there and Richelieu felt his shackled hands tighten around the folds of his robes.

But the cardinal could not ignore the small noises of pain Treville couldn't entirely hold back or that the strip of the handkerchief visible beneath the ripped clothing had taken on a pinkish hue.

"Is there no key for these?" he asked out loud, casting a dark look at the shackles just to stop his throat from constricting yet again. 

Treville pulled away, perhaps to answer, or perhaps to warn him of the approaching footsteps that Richelieu had just in that moment become aware of, that were hurrying towards the office. 

"Cahusac!" he shouted once more, sitting up straight and rocking back onto his haunches in order to be able to see the door. But even as he did so he never let go of the man in his arms. 

Finally, finally the musketeers burst into the room to relieved shouts of "Captain!" 

They were closely followed by Cahusac and a Red Guard who emerged through the door leading to the archives. Cahusac exhaled an equally eased sounding "thank God" upon spotting the two figures crouched on the floor. 

"They're alive," the musketeers called to someone outside in the hall, and Richelieu dragged his consciousness into the present, realising that he needed to react in some fashion to the men's arrival – and also that there was no reason for Cardinal to hold the former Captain of the King's Musketeers so close.

"He's injured," he offered and the soldiers cursed. 

Neither musketeer had much more than a look to spare for Fauchet as they stepped over his body to reach their captain.

"Don't listen to him," Treville insisted as Aramis crouched next to him. "He doesn't know what he's talking about. It's nothing," he added, even while Aramis methodically batted away Richelieu's hands to get a look at the wound. 

Richelieu had to allow it, even though it made his breath hitch to let go of Treville.

"Let me be the judge of that, please," said Aramis. "If you would give us some space, Cardinal."

"Your Eminence." Cahusac had appeared beside him. "The musketeers need a bit of room to look after their captain." Cahusac held out his hand to help him up, and this, too, Richelieau had to allow. 

Years of practice enabled him to appear calm as Cahusac led him away from Treville towards the desk. "You should sit down again, Your Eminence. Perhaps not here," Cahusac added, his voice thick, when he spotted Loiseau's corpse. 

Richelieu let Cahusac help him into a chair while wondering how well Cahusac had known the guards Fauchet had killed. Loiseau had been with them at the chateau during all those months, as one of the Captain's most trusted Red Guards. Just like Anjou and Biscarrat.

"Your Eminence?"

Richelieu blinked and looked up at Cahusac. 

"Are you hurt?"

Richelieu shook his head. If only. All that he could think of was "Jean."

"The musketeers are taking care of him," Cahusac said, his brow marred by deep lines.

Just in that moment Aramis gained their attention by clearing his throat.

"Is there somewhere elevated he can lie down on flat?" He eyed the cluttered desk warily. "Something bigger? A dining table?"

Presumably not expecting to hear an answer from Richelieu it was Cahusac who replied. "Three doors down, on the left side."

"Thank you, Captain. Porthos, if you would do us the honour…?"

They couldn't see what it was that Porthos did, but with a click and a clink the manacles opened and dropped to the floor. 

"The most talented hands the Court of Miracles ever produced," said Athos appreciatively. "Are you ready, Captain?" 

"Don't make a fuss," Treville said. "It's only a cut."

"Still needs stitches. Porthos?"

"I can walk!"

Aramis did not look too happy about it, but he merely sighed. "As you wish."

So they watched as Porthos helped him onto his feet. Treville gasped, covering the gash in his side with his hand, which covered it from Richelieu's view. But he followed Athos and d'Artagnan out of the room on his own two feet, with Porthos at his side, just in case. 

Richelieu watched them leave. They were back in their musketeers' world in which Richelieu was only ever a spectator at best, whenever he wasn't an obstacle. 

At the same time that the musketeers walked out a couple of Red Guards rushed into the office to take away the bodies of their brothers, and Richelieu felt Cahusac touch his shoulders lightly. 

"Your Eminence."

"Yes?"

Cahusac hesitated, paused, as if he had begun to talk without knowing what it was that he wanted to say. They watched the bodies being carried away. 

"You made it. You won," Cahusac said after clearing his throat. 

"Do you think so?"

Feeling drained Richelieu rested his head against Cahusac's hip. All he wanted was Jean. His captain didn't need to know how close he'd come to lose himself. 

"Yes." From somewhere Cahusac had produced a handkerchief which he was using to try and rub off the blood on Richelieu's hands. But it wasn't much use on its own. The blood had already dried. 

_Treville's blood._

"Fauchet would have killed him because of me." The sorrow sat like a stone within his stomach.

"But he didn't. Do you think the musketeers would have let him walk out of here if there's any chance that the wound is serious? You saved him, and he'll tell you so once Aramis has taken care of him. You've won." 

Perhaps he had. But what did he have to show for it? His gaze fell on Fauchet's body. Another convenient lie he'd have to make up for the king. 

He couldn't possibly celebrate anything until he held Treville in his arms again and there were neither blood nor manacles to separate them.


	14. Your Reward In Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. This is where we get to the sweet, schmoopy comfort part. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me for so long!

Richelieu was not granted the luxury to wait for the moment of reunion. Just as Cahusac had warned him before they had left for the Palais Cardinal in the morning the Palace soon beckoned, and the king's First Servant had to obey. 

When, after months of blessed absence, he faced once more the courtiers who despised him he did not hold back his anger. There would be no doubt in all of Paris that it was not a mellowed Cardinal Richelieu who had risen from his own grave in this mighty fashion.

After his audience, while the Courtiers retreated to mingle amongst each other, the king took him aside to discuss potential candidates for those council positions that had become vacant due to both Rochefort's murders and the arrests carried out by the musketeers. The cardinal did indeed have a suggestion to make, silently praying he would be available.

As they talked Richelieu had to suppress an urge – almost a yearning – to look to the entrance. Cahusac had promised him that Treville would follow him as soon as he was able to, but so far Richelieu remained alone amongst interchangeable nobles, and there was little sense for him to dwell on the whys and hows while king and Court demanded his attention. 

Yet, he could not stop the anxiety from prodding the back of his mind.

When Louis asked about Treville's whereabouts for the second time that day Richelieu had no idea how to respond.

But the king did not press him. He began to talk of Spain and Rochefort instead, and the cardinal had little trouble to summon a grave expression to wear as they discussed the course that was to lead them to war. It was Louis, not his frightful, cold advisor who despite the grave subject appeared freed, full of vitality; while the cardinal remained solemn. The king had a good reason for his exhilaration: He had made up with his wife, his son was healthy and safe, and he had his favourite advisor back to save him from steering the ship of state across anything but following seas. 

Meanwhile, the advisor's troubles were accumulating in droves. 

But while they talked campaign objectives, prospective marshals and the state of the armament that Richelieu was going to check for sabotage from Rochefort as soon as he was back in his office, a new visitor was announced, and the winged door to the audience chamber opened to finally reveal Treville. 

Louis did not appear to mind the man's tardiness, since he immediately left the cardinal's side to rush to him and embrace his former captain in full view of the lingering courtiers. Treville took the high and uncommon honour in the only graceful way: by bowing demurely. 

Richelieu watched the scene standing still as a statue, drinking in the sight of him. The bruises were still visible on his face – if anything they had grown darker – but he had changed into a clean uniform without any signs of a gash, complemented by a brushed, bright blue musketeer's cloak that even at a distance made his eyes sparkle. 

For a moment Richelieu hardly dared to breathe, until, for the fraction of a second only, Treville turned to wink at him.

Even though Treville had to be sore and tired, there was colour in his cheeks. He looked as sprightly as the solemn, stoic musketeer ever did in a public setting. The cut, Richelieu gathered, couldn't possibly be bothering him. He was safe. And the king, still a little pale around the nose, beamed at him as if he had never been cross.

Realising this was meant to be a private moment Richelieu hung back. He would not dream of interrupting the two men in their attempt to patch over the holes in their relationship. Already to the casual observer the scene would appear as if there never been anything amiss between them. The king had started grinning the moment Treville had appeared, and his delight left his face only when he – as was evident through his gestures – asked about Treville's injuries. 

Richelieu planned on asking his lover later what tale he had come up with to explain his bruises, but for now he was content to watch king and captain be reunited, feeling his heart swell with relief. Throughout the months Richelieu had promised Treville that Louis would forgive him, but to see it happen was still a small wonder.

Eventually the king motioned for Treville to walk with him, and, guessing he would not be needed for a while, Richelieu returned to where he'd left Cahusac.

The Captain of the Red Guard abandoned his stoic mien for a barely perceivable smile and together they watched as the king and his musketeer were joined by the queen who had left her son in the care of Madame Bonacieux. Soon the three of them walked off to a secluded corner, no doubt discussing Treville's future. 

Richelieu felt a pang of apprehension, but forced himself to abstain from interfering. This was Jean's moment. Richelieu had to trust that he would make the right decision.

It proved a practice in willpower to tear his eyes away from the retreating form his lover, but he signalled to Cahusac to accompany him outside before any of the assembled nobles got it into their heads to talk to him. The king looked like he wouldn't miss him for a while.

"I heard you suggest Lady Marguerite be attached to your great-niece?" Cahusac asked as they walked down the hall, away from the audience chamber.

Richelieu nodded. "Marguerite has still a lot to learn about Court-life and my niece can use fresh company while her fiancé is travelling New France."

"You're sending Boileau to the colonies? What is he going to do there?"

"Surveying wood for my navy." He kept a neutral expression. "If he manages it without making a fool of himself, perhaps I'll allow him to return after a year."

If he didn't manage... Well, Richelieu hoped his niece wouldn't be grey before he did. But perhaps Boileau would surprise him once again; there was quite a lot of change taking place at the moment, after all.

"You never asked me about him, Cahusac." He forced out the words while the world still felt liquid and pliable. "Not even after he followed us to the chateau." 

"Monsieur de Treville?" Cahusac stared at him, perplexed for a second.

Yet, all Richelieu meant to do was to return the openness his Captain had shown towards him right before they had left the chateau for Paris just the day before. Had it really only been yesterday? And already their world had changed so much. He didn't even mind that he had just put the fear of God into a roomful of jealous, small minded noblemen. On the contrary, it felt very freeing. Or maybe it was losing the anxiety about Jean's wound that made him feel that way.

"It wasn't relevant to my duties to ask about him," Cahusac eventually replied after a stunned silence. "Besides, you never asked me about my partners."

Cahusac's words flushed away Richelieu's rare mellowness in one swipe, making him arrest his steps. 

"You mean to say…?"

_Partners_ , he said. _Not mistresses, not women. It could mean anything, but…_

"That I'm like you? Not in many ways, save one." 

Richelieu almost asked _who_ , but thought better of it. Cahusac had managed to be discreet so far. To be able to hide his preferences even from Richelieu meant he'd earned his privacy. 

"You're saying you didn't know, Your Eminence?"

"Despite appearances I'm not omniscient."

He really needed to listen to Treville and pay more attention to his captains. With a mental frown Richelieu thought of the ones that had served him before Cahusac. In retrospect it appeared to him that during the year in which the young man had come into his employ Richelieu had named a new Captain of the Red Guard every other week – mostly due to the inference of over-eager musketeers.

"You think I am?" Cahusac countered. An amused note broke his usual monotone. 

"No. But I'm afraid I wasn't very subtle at times at the chateau." Or just a couple of hours ago, in the Palais Cardinal. Not even those circumstances should have excused his carelessness.

"If you'll permit me to say, it helped to learn this about you and—" Cahusac bit his tongue. Perhaps he was struggling for the right words, but perhaps he was merely mindful of potential eavesdroppers. "I respect your beliefs and your thoughts on the Holy Scripture very much." He looked at Richelieu from under concerned brows. "Is this going to be a problem, Your Emincene?" 

The stony mien and the monotone had returned to the captain like a mask. They were a useful habit to have for a man in Cahusac's position, but unnecessary when he was alone with the cardinal. They would have to work on that. 

"I would have thought you had noticed by now, but I tend to protect those I consider my own."

While it was useful to be feared by some, it was unnecessary, even a hindrance to be feared by all. Even though it could be a problem to have certain things revealed about the captain of one's guard there was no denying that Cahusac had protected his secrets well so far, and there was no reason believe he wouldn't continue to do so.

"I—uh." Cahusac blinked, taken aback. Of course he hesitated. Fauchet had not believed in Richelieu's words either, but, "Of course, Your Eminence," Cahusac said, and he smiled.

* * *

They didn't walk far and just as Richelieu had anticipated he was soon called back into the heart of the palace for a provisory council meeting. There were a lot of empty seats in the wake of Rochefort's rampage and the arrests that had been carried out during the night. The king still believed those nobles who had been taken to the Bastille to be allies of Rochefort. Richelieu would tell Louis – and only him – of Gaston's involvement in a short while, but for now he was content to let the lie work for him.

When he arrived in the exalted chamber one of the empty seats had already been taken by Treville who had joined the council meeting in his new position – which was still provisional as well; which still could change; it didn't have to be final – and they had exchanged their usual bickering there. 

But even as the two of them lingered after the meeting they had little time for private words, and no time at all for stolen touches. They were very aware that they were not alone and they both knew that Richelieu was expected to wait on the king and then return to the Palais Cardinal to ensure Rochefort had not messed with their armament, while Treville had to leave for the garrison to prepare to move out and decide on a successor. In lieu of anything more intimate Richelieu asked him what he had told the king about his wounds and Treville responded in the gruff, annoyed tone he favoured when things got too personal while they were observed. All their secret communication had to rely on looks, leaning into each other's space, and more subtle gestures that were hardly discernable to the untrained eye.

When they parted in order for each to tend to their own tasks Richelieu felt both calmer and more anxious. But no matter how much he yearned to convince himself bodily that Treville was well, his desires had to be put on hold for the time being. 

Once Treville had disappeared heading back to the musketeers' garrison, it seemed that Louis was loathe to let Richelieu part from his side as well. On the one hand Richelieu was convinced that Louis' hovering prevented him from being as effective as he could have been, but on the other hand it was gratifying to see proof of his being so staunchly ingrained in the king's affections and favours. 

Besides, there was no other place he needed to be. Treville would be just as busy. Perhaps Richelieu had earned a little break to do more than eat and pray after having been up on his feet for twenty-four hours to protect king and country. But in the end, he didn't ask for it. It was his sense for duty that kept him chained to his work, he told himself. Nothing else. 

He only managed to get away from the palace during Rochefort's transfer to the Bastille, which he oversaw personally and which passed without incident. Once arrived at the prison fortress he ensured the governor provided Rochefort with a comfortable bed, his own chair and table, and some light reading material – all due a prisoner of noble station. He also ensured all of these materials to furnish a cell in the highest tower with the steepest, smoothest walls, patrolled by guards who changed daily. And finally, sadly, the Comte would have to do without a window, for his own safety. 

In that cell Rochefort would remain quite comfortably until his trial and execution, free to rant about Her Majesty and her co-conspirators as much as he liked in the meantime. The upper levels of the Bastille were an excellent workplace for the city's deaf and mute. 

After his visit to the Bastille the cardinal could have made a detour to the musketeers' garrison, but he returned to the palace instead, and to an appointment with the ambassador of Sweden, followed by a meeting with the chancellor who was rather cross on finding that his assistant was being prosecuted for treason.

It was not until the light of day had faded and Richelieu sat hunched over a desk strewn with papers lit by candlelight that they met on their own time. 

"There you are! I've been looking for you."

The candle flames flickered in the draught of the door opening and closing and Richelieu caught himself taking an involuntary deep breath. 

"Madame Bonacieux and d'Artagnan are getting married next week, but neither of them wants you to officiate."

Richelieu had trained himself so well that once he knew Treville was alive and well he had been able to immerse himself in his work. But of course the yearning and apprehension had still been there, waiting, just under the skin. It was what? Ten hours since they had last spoken in the council chamber? On a normal day this would have mattered little. They used to spend days without having time for each other. But their days had not been normal for quite a while.

Richelieu leant back in his chair, attempting a neutral tone of voice. "Field Marshal, what an honour" he said. "Please, do come in. Oh, and do tell your musketeer when you see him that I have far more important tasks to attend to anyway."

He tried not to turn his head. He tried to pretend his characteristic nonchalance. Of course he failed. There was not much light in the chamber apart from the candles illuminating Richelieu's papers and the fireside at the far end of the room, but the cardinal could see his visitor clearly: Treville had found his way back to him, and no musketeers or maddened Vicomtes were anywhere in sight to separate them. 

The dim firelight softened the colour of the bruises of his face, but it did not take away from the blue sparkle in his eyes as Treville snorted in amusement at the cardinal's formality. 

When had they last played this game? How many weeks, how many months had it been?

"Your Eminence, you are staring at me."

"Am I?" Well, why shouldn't he? He had spent half the day praying for nothing but an opportunity to enjoy his lover, and staring at him was part of it.

"Whatever for?" Treville added, barely able to contain his smile. He leaned against the doorframe, looking relaxed.

"Nothing. Your ego doesn't need any more inflating."

Treville's smile broke out into the open and Richelieu could not wait any longer.

He rose out of his seat, walked up to his lover and pulled him against his chest. This time there were no shackles to stop Jean from returning his embrace. They kissed for the first time since that terrifying morning and the sensation robbed Richelieu of breath and language. 

"I almost didn't come," Treville said, and suddenly Richelieu's legs turned heavy as lead. The lightness that had made his heart beat faster a moment before faded before the memories.

"I was about to give up and return to the garrison to drink my sorrows, because I couldn't find you," Treville continued and the cardinal metaphorically shook himself out of his stupor. Treville was joking, of course, but even though his body felt strong under Richelieu's hands the cardinal could still feel the blood on his fingertips. 

"That's when I ran into Cahusac."

Richelieu blinked, clawing his way back into the present.

"I sent him to the guard's barracks at the palais to go to bed for the night," he explained and Treville let his gaze sweep around the room. They were in a guest chamber at the palace, near the Royal apartments. Apart from the small desk Richelieu brooded over and the lit fireplace there were a large wardrobe, a cabinet half hiding a wash basin and a bed looking as if it had been freshly made. 

"But you have no intention of following his example?" There was still some amusement in Treville's voice but it was tainted by exasperation, and apprehension. 

"There's no sense in returning to my palais before my servants do. No beds are made, no fires are lit," _and there's blood stains on the main office floor_ , he added in thoughts. 

"Besides, I'm certainly not going to use Rochefort's rooms," he joked, hoping to drive the memories away. "Have you seen them? His bedroom is entirely decked out in black and gold, even the bedclothes."

"You're right." Treville smirked. "Cardinal red is so much better." But then he sighed. "But you're not sleeping here either, it seems."

"Too busy."

Richelieu burned to reveal to Treville the reason for his restlessness, but despite his eloquence at Court they were not the kind of men to posses the vocabulary for a conversation like this. 

It was so hard to unwind, and even with Jean's hands resting at his waist he hesitated to try. For what stopped the world from coming up with another trick to keep Jean from him the moment he gave in to his base desires? He was tempted to check under the bed for assassins.

While he kept silent Jean angled his head to study his face, looking concerned, and Richelieu sighed. 

"There's so much to do."

They parted from their embrace and Richelieu led them to his desk where he sank back into his seat heavily. 

Immediately Treville moved to stand behind him and Richelieu felt his heart jump into his throat when his lover's bare hands touched his neck. Jean felt hot. Or maybe Richelieu was cold from staying seated in one spot for so long. Or maybe from denying himself. 

"You need to do this _now_?"

Richelieu heard Treville sigh as he pretended to look through his notes again. But in truth his concentration had long since started to abandon him, and now that Jean had shown up it was entirely shot. 

"Don't you think after the last twenty-four hours you deserve a nap? You have secretaries."

"Who are busy as well. Which raises the question why you aren't busy?"

"I don't have a job at the moment. Louis hasn't given me my marshal's baton yet." He didn't sound too concerned about it. 

"Don't you have a successor to prepare?" 

"At night?" Jean leaned down to brush his lips over the sensitive spot behind Richelieu's ear and the cardinal felt every word spoken tickle his skin. He raised a hand to place it over one of Jean's.

"Your staff might be made up of owls and cats," Jean continued, "but musketeers need to sleep after a long day spent saving the nation – and their captain."

Richelieu shuddered at the reminder. He had managed all day to keep it inside, and now he was not sure he still knew how to let go. 

Treville noticed and resumed stroking his lover's neck.

"You're so tense." 

Richelieu could hear the frown in Jean's voice and barely resisted rubbing his eyes. 

"I'm working to undo every contract Rochefort has made to the detriment of our nation."

This was why he had been up working so late, wasn't it? To keep Jean safe from any other damage Rochefort's machinations could cause.

"They're still going to be there tomorrow." 

"That is precisely the problem." Richelieu sighed. It was not that he wanted to sit down and sift through the papers until the candles burned out, but he felt like he couldn't relax until he did. 

"Do you know what Rochefort promised to Sweden in lieu of the contract I negotiated to ensure they would stay and fight for us in Germany? It's by God's grace that they decided to keep negotiating instead of simply breaking with us out of outrage!"

"Armand, I'm sure the Swedes realise how much more reasonable you are than that madman. And I'm convinced they will be thrilled to hear you're back to continue negotiations. But if you don't come to bed I'm going to leave and join my— the musketeers in drinking themselves silly."

"They have to drink to get like that? I always assumed it was their natural state."

Despite the light words he didn't quite manage to capture the humour with his voice. This was not how he had imagined their reunion, and it was entirely his fault.

Treville stroked a thumb over the rim of Richelieu's ear soothingly.

"When is the last time you slept?"

"I napped this morning, while you were fighting for your life!"

Treville's hands stilled at his shoulders, and Richelieu cursed himself silently. 

But Jean appeared to be struck by none of his afflictions. He resumed stroking his neck after a moment and Richelieu heard him speak softly: "And then you saved me." 

When Jean leaned down to kiss the side of his face Richelieu couldn't stand it anymore. 

He jumped to his feet, captured Jean's face between his hands and pressed their lips together. Jean made an appreciative sound before slipping his tongue into Richelieu's mouth and at once Richelieu felt all the desperation return and then flee from him – bleed out – while Jean licked and sucked and caressed him until the breath escaped Richelieu in little sighs.

Dimly, he heard the chair fall over. He hadn't even noticed they were moving until Jean let himself fall back onto the bed and Richelieu, unwilling to let go of him just yet, tumbled after him. 

"Will you still not come to bed?" Jean asked with a self-satisfied smile as Richelieu crouched over him. "If it's me asking?"

The offer was exquisitely tempting; and so were the feathered mattress and the soft blankets.

"I'm too tired for that, Jean." But he stole another kiss, simple, closed-mouth, from his lover's lips.

Perhaps he truly was getting too old to stay up for almost two days defending king and country and facing down kidnappers with nothing but a nap in between. 

Jean smiled. If he was disappointed he didn't show it.

"Just for sleep, then."

It would be heavenly to curl up next to Jean and forget about Sweden, Rochefort, Louis, and all his troubles for the duration of a night. Richelieu swallowed as he sensed the chains in his mind tightening. He cast a flittering glance back to the desk that still stood illuminated by a dozen candles. 

Beneath him Treville growled. 

"I'm going to snuff the candles, nothing else. Don't move."

Treville let him get up without much protest, but Richelieu saw him scowl, and as Richelieu bent across his desk he heard him fling his jacket and boots to the floor. 

Candlesnuffer in hand Richelieu cast another look at the virgin documents lying in front of him, that needed to be looked at, containing the fate of a nation. 

"Do I need to carry you or are you coming voluntarily?"

Another tempting offer, but Richelieu had to think of Jean's stitches. Snuffing the candles he hurried back towards the bed before the smoke had a chance to dissipate – but not without making a detour to lock the door. 

"And what's that for?" Richelieu heard the smile in Jean's voice. "I thought you were too tired for anything innocent eyes need protecting from?"

"We'll see," he said, before he shrugged out of his robe, kicked off his boots and climbed onto the bed next to him. Jean immediately rolled onto his side to draw Richelieu against him for another kiss that tasted of honey and milk to the cardinal's stressed body. Jean's hands slipped underneath his shirt and being so caressed and kissed Richelieu could feel Jean prying lose every chain and every thread that had burrowed into his heart and wrapped around his brains.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, when Jean released his lips to move his kisses to Richelieu's jaw. 

"Don't be." Jean rearranged the covers around and when he lay back down he rested his forehead against Richelieu's. "It's alright, I understand."

Richelieu felt Jean move against him, take his hand and place it over his heart. "I'm here now. See?"

Of course Jean would understand. He had tried to live with the knowledge of his lover being dead for weeks until he wasn't anymore. Richelieu's pain and anxiety had to be trivial compared to his. 

Placing his hands on Jean's shoulders he pulled him closer, not to kiss, not to touch, just to feel. He breathed in deeply, wiping liquid fear from his eyes, and let his hands roam, thinking he could fall asleep like this: with the day's work done and Treville lying against him.

But when his hands passed just under Jean's shoulder blades underneath his fingers he could feel the scar from where the assassin's pistol ball had torn into him only weeks ago. They had not shared a bed since then.

Richelieu shivered and Jean held him close, but could not stop his hand from wandering down to the musketeer's waist. There would be another scar there soon, even though right now it was covered with linen cloth to protect the stitches. 

Jean remained still while Richelieu stroked down the length of the wound.

"Does it hurt?"

Jean sighed into Richelieu's neck. 

"I've had worse."

"That's very comforting."

Richelieu ran his hand up underneath Jean's shirt back to his shoulder blades, feeling the scars along the way. If he wished to he could read them like a history book. Through the years Jean had told him the story of each one of them, as far as he could remember them: from sieges, to tavern brawls, to lovers' spats. Having witnessed his career since he had first come to Court as a young, hopeful soldier whose derring-do had caught the king's interest Richelieu believed every one of them. He remembered the king had first granted young Treville a private audience after he had been away from Paris for months to cure a wound he had received leading a charge that had turned the course of a battle. 

Soon he might do it again.

"I'm not in any pain now, merely sore," Jean said and Richelieu cupped his face in one hand. It was too dark to see the bruises now, but he could feel the healing cut on his lip under his thumb. Richelieu suppressed a shudder.

"Did Fauchet…?"

"He didn't hurt me," Jean placed a hand above Richelieu's. "Not personally. He intended to arrest me, or so he claimed. But I guessed what he was doing." He scoffed. "Or so I thought. I thought he was acting on Rochefort's orders, and since I wasn't keen on letting the Comte use me against you there was a fight."

"I heard," Richelieu said, stroking Jean's scarred chest. "One of the Red Guards said you fought like a lion."

Jean exhaled against his skin. 

"Anjou and Biscarrat didn't make it. They were good men. Cahusac should be proud."

"He is. So am I."

He waited for Jean to clear his throat.

"What are you going to do now? About the documents? And Fauchet's family?"

"The king believes Fauchet's death to be a tragic accident, brought about by a Red Guard who turned out to be a fanatic follower of Rochefort's, and I'm happy to let him, and everybody else, continue to believe that story."

"You're going to leave them be?"

"I have no intention to ruin the prospects of what I presume are innocent young people from an otherwise loyal noble house. Perhaps his son, once he's called to Court, will prove to be wiser than the father."

"Really?"

Richelieu smirked.

"In case he doesn't I'm going to keep those documents safe."

Once again he felt Jean's breath ghost over his skin. 

"Have you a different idea?"

"No, it's sensible. I like it." Jean's hands set out to draw small, slow circles over his lover's chest and waist. "I'm glad you're back."

"Not as glad as I am to be back. I appreciate my brother's help, but living under Alphonse's roof is a nightmare.

Jean smiled and Richelieu drew him closer. He was a gift.

More than arresting Rochefort, receiving the king's forgiveness, returning to the Palais Cardinal or putting the Courtiers in their place, it was Treville who made Richelieu feel like he had finally arrived home.

"You were right about Louis," Treville began and it took a moment for Richlieu to catch onto what he meant. "I shouldn't have doubted."

"I was wrong about him as well. I thought he'd only give you back your commission or renew his offer to make you a councillor. I didn't think he'd give you an entire army!"

Despite his light tone he could not help but swallow against his suddenly dry throat. 

Treville chuckled, oblivious of his lover's dark thoughts. "Now that you're back he doesn't need me on his council anymore."

"I can talk to him should you decide to reconsider. Are you certain you don't want to join the council instead?"

"As you said yourself, I'd make a terrible politician. I don't have the stomach for it."

"You'd learn a thing or two. You couldn't be worse than the majority of the existing council."

A huff of breath brushed Richelieu's skin when Treville snorted. 

"My current field of work is bloody enough," he said. "My new field of work."

"What have you told your musketeers? A month ago you refused to leave them, no matter what."

"I can choose my own successor this time. That helps." Treville exhaled noisily. "The musketeers know that I'm leaving – actually leaving this time. There's always some apprehension when a new commander shows up, but they'll adjust, and I believe Athos will make an excellent captain. It will be hard on him, barely promoted, and already there's a war to be fought. But he's no stranger to battle, even though he has never before led a body of men as large as an entire regiment." Treville exhaled deeply against Richelieu's skin. "He'll take care they won't be wasted." 

Richelieu rolled onto his back to relieve his shoulder and Treville scooted close, lying against his side. 

"How did Athos take the news?"

"Reserved, as always." He put his head on Richelieu's shoulder, and the cardinal resumed running his fingers through Jean's hair. His lover sighed. "But he did seem distracted, and he rushed off immediately after."

"But he returned?"

"Of course." 

He heard the frown in Jean's voice: "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"No. I simply doubt we're going to see Milady for a while."

"What a shame. She's useful."

"Hm." Richelieu wasn't entirely sure whether Jean was serious, but he couldn’t stop himself from frowning. Still, he decided to let the comment pass and avoid an argument. Their time was too precious to be spent fighting over Milady. 

"Maréchal de France," he sighed. "You realise there'll be no turning back? Once you leave the musketeers and once Athos is made your successor you can't take the captaincy back."

Instead Treville would lead the war against Spain and their allies, and who knew how long it would take for him to come back home. If he ever did. Richelieu stopped his movements and buried his fingers in Treville's close-cropped hair.

"I built this regiment. I loved being their captain. But this… It's what I always wanted. What I've wanted from the beginning." Richelieu heard him exhale around a bitter-sweet smile. "This is the time to move on."

There was still so much of the boy in him, who had come to Paris to make a name for himself. A name that set him apart from the family estate that was tied to his father first and then to his elder brother, but that was never truly his. 

Attempting to deny this to him, to deny him earning the highest military honour the kingdom had to offer was cowardly and wrong. But Richelieu was weak against the thought of losing him – again. 

"What are you going to do after the war? How are you going to occupy your time once there are no armies to lead?"

"Louis will find something for me. All I know is if I don't take this chance now there'll never be another. I'd regret it." He exhaled again. "After the war you can ask me again about the council."

Richelieu felt Treville's beard rub against the exposed skin of his shoulder and neck as the marshal tilted his head to kiss the side of Richelieu's face.

"After the war I won't leave again."

After the war meant when there was peace in all of Europe. After the war meant not only after the war with Spain, but after the proxy war in the east both France and Spain had fanned to be fought by their allies. After the war meant after the battles and sieges. It meant after the retreats and ambushes and advances, and after the camp beds and the rationing, and after the rats, and the muck and the diseases. After the war meant after the encampments in summer swelter, and after the marches across rivers swollen or frozen in winter. 

After the war meant years.

After this war that Richelieu had successfully sought to bring about.

"I can't convince you to stay in Paris?"

There was a moment of silence after which Richelieu felt Jean shift against him and prop himself up on one arm. Even in the relative darkness of the chamber there was enough light for Richelieu to see his lover regard him with a sympathetic, earnest look. 

"You hate this," he said.

"I've tried it for a while," Richelieu said, speaking as if through fog, "but your absence doesn't become me." He rubbed his eyes and felt like gnashing his teeth in frustration. He was the First Minister of France, the Cardinal of Richelieu. He was feared, admired, immovable, strong. But this night he was also Armand, least of God's servants. Armand who had been gifted with the affection of this exceptional man. And Armand needed to be weak tonight. Weak enough to not fight his fears. Armand needed to be weak enough to allow this weakness into the open or he would never be able to shed it. 

"I'm being silly, aren't I?" he asked. 

"No. Not entirely." Treville paused, his voice heavy. "What you feel isn't silly." 

Richelieu looked away, into the darkness that had swallowed his desk and all the hateful paperwork until Treville's hand lightly touched his face and Richelieu forced himself to look at him again. Something leaden lodged in the cardinal's throat. 

"The one downside to this position," Treville continued, "is that I can't be at your side. But that's the case no matter what path I choose. Even if I were to join the council you'd be gone every time Louis takes to the field." 

"Yes, of course." Another deep breath escaped Richelieu.

Of course Treville was right. It was unfair of Richelieu to ask him to do what he himself wished to avoid. As a First Minister who was feared by the Court, who ruled only by the king's grace, he had to be around his monarch wherever he went, as much as he could. During war even more so than when there was peace. Strategies and policies might need adjustment daily. Of course he would not be sitting out the war in Paris. 

No matter what they chose, one of them would always have to live with the uncertainty, with the worry about the other. 

Even if Treville remained with the musketeers, who were expected to always be near the king, there was no guarantee he'd be where Richelieu was. He remembered all the times – La Rochelle, Italy – that Louis had to abort his campaigning for the benefit of his health, taking his musketeers with him, while Richelieu had been left in charge. In the case of La Rochelle he hadn't seen Treville for months at a time. His musketeers had been back in Paris during most of it, watching over a bored, ailing king, while Richelieu had been facing cannon fire and muskets, the threat of Buckingham's navy and, once again, plots to assassinate him. 

"You must do what is best for you and for France." He grimaced. "Who knows who Louis would put in your place if you refused?" 

But instead of laughing at his joke, Treville started stroking the side of Richelieu's face. 

"I can't leave this to anyone else; when I know I can do it myself." 

Richelieu sighed. Why did Jean have to sound so reasonable? 

He took hold of the hand at his face and ran his thumb over it. _Jean would manage it_. Richelieu knew it. But could _he_? Would he be able to use an army led by Treville, led by Jean, as effectively or, if necessary, as coolly as he would any other? 

He had to. He owed him to him. 

He squeezed Treville's hand and cleared his throat.

"If you inspire half as much confidence in your army as you do with the musketeers this war won't last long enough for you to miss me."

There could be little doubt that Treville was going to raise a general's staff and guard who would come to adore him, and who would give anything to keep him from the greatest foolishness. Perhaps Richelieu could even make a few suggestions…

Smiling, Jean brought their hands to his lips and kissed Richelieu's knuckles one by one. 

" _I_ always miss you," he said. "I'll lay Madrid at your feet before the year is out, just so you have a reason to come and inspect it."

Richelieu exhaled sharply through his nose. "Perhaps I need to have Louis withdraw his offer on grounds of these delusions of grandeur you're exhibiting." 

Jean grinned at him. "Enough of that now. It's not what I came here for." Shifting again until he leaned over Richelieu he took his lover's earlobe between his teeth, nipping Richelieu's skin before kissing it. 

"I'm still here," he said. "We are not at war yet and one doesn't raise an army in a day. Until then, I intend to spend as much time as I can with you."

It was another sensible proposal and Richelieu was not going to allow either of them to waste another second. The days until Rochefort's trial and until war was declared openly against Spain would be far from lazy, but they'd be broken up by dinner invitations and private audiences, and followed by nights as long as they chose to make them. 

When Treville bent down for another kiss Richelieu gladly threw his arms around his neck. Like so many times before, for the blessed hours of the night when they rested under the protective veil of warm shadows, Treville was his comfort and his calm. As long as he could feel his heartbeat next to his and his breath against his skin Richelieu was at home.

"You can try to convince me again to take that council seat once you feel livelier in the morning."

Richelieu could feel himself smile, the ghosts of the day vanquished.

"I love you."

They were not the kind of men to know the words to follow a confession like this, but luckily the vocabulary for this particular conversation didn't require words. 

Richelieu was going to kill the first person to knock on the door before noon.


End file.
